


When It Burns

by Bellobelle



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Canon, Curses, Dark, Delusions, Enchantments, Gen, Insanity, M/M, canonverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-19
Updated: 2013-03-19
Packaged: 2017-12-05 12:05:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 45,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/723113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bellobelle/pseuds/Bellobelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a curse causes Arthur to see Merlin die dozens of different ways every day, he struggles to maintain his knowledge of what's real and what isn't. Somehow he must protect his sanity while governing his kingdom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When It Burns

The first time it happens is in the woods. Somehow Arthur and Merlin got separated from the rest of the Knights on the hunting trip, which happens often enough that it’s no longer a surprise. So the two carry on as normal, Arthur killing animals and Merlin seeming to do his best to distract him.

By nightfall the King has killed two deer and over a dozen smaller animals, plenty to add to Camelot’s storage. As the moon rises, Arthur and Merlin set up camp in a small clearing, satisfied with the fruits of the day's labor.

They tie up their horses and sit on the ground, joking and trading lighthearted insults. Finally, Merlin takes one too many jibes at the increasing size of Arthur's stomach, and in a fit of irritation the king sends his servant to go collect firewood. Merlin saunters into the darkness, smirking.

After Merlin disappears between the trees, Arthur rubs a hand self-consciously against the chain mail covering his belly. He sniffs, deciding that Merlin must have been dropped on his head as a child, and settles on a log to wait for Merlin to return and light the fire.

For a few moments he sits, listening to the trees rustling and crickets chirping. The air is cool and wet, the smell of rain fresh and clinging to the ground, filling Arthur’s senses with a pleasant, earthy smell. Then the tranquil evening sounds are startled by a loud shout.

"Arthur! ARTHUR!"

Arthur jerks his head up at the sound of Merlin's voice, worry immediately at the terror and desperation in his friend's call. He takes off running, unsheathing his sword as he goes, crashing through the trees in Merlin’s direction.

"Merlin!" He calls, "Merlin!" There’s no reply, which spurs him on faster.

Suddenly, a dark figure appears in his path. In the darkness, he can only make out a hunched silhouette with gleaming yellow eyes. Arthur’s stomach churns when he realizes that the dark substance dripping from the sharp teeth must be blood. A wolf, he concludes. Driven with dread, he slashes his sword and keeps running, not bothering to look behind him to check what became of the animal.

Finally he stumbles to a halt when he sees a dark lump on the forest floor. In the moonlight, it doesn’t take long to know what he's looking at.

Merlin lies sprawled on his back, his arms spread wide. His eyes stare up at the sky, glassy and cold. His jaw is slack, a thick trickle of blood running from the corner of his mouth.

Arthur drops to his knees, too weak to stand. He stares, taking in Merlin's clothes – torn and hanging limp from his body, exposing the mutilated torso beneath. Distantly, Arthur is glad that the darkness hides the organs, but the dark blood is unmistakable against Merlin's too-pale skin.

He shakes his head numbly in denial, refusing it to be true. He crawls to Merlin's lifeless body and reaches out, his hand hovering above the torn flesh. Hot tears spring from his eyes and all he can do is stare down at the broken body of his best friend. A short distance away, Arthur sees a small pile of wood, dropped in the attack. A harsh reminder that it was Arthur who sent Merlin into the woods to collect the firewood, at night, without Arthur there to protect him.

"I did this," He whispers hoarsely, "It's my fault." His voice breaks. "I'm sorry, I’m so--”

"Oh, so now you're apologizing?"

The unmistakable sound of Merlin's voice startles Arthur, jerking his hand away from the body as though on fire. He stares down before he realizes that the voice came from behind him, and he whirls around to see Merlin standing there.

He jumps to his feet, shock coursing through him as he takes in the sight before him. Merlin is standing there with his arms full of firewood, clothes intact, not ripped nor stained with blood. His eyes are alive and looking at Arthur, brows wrinkled in confusion.

"Arthur? What happened, why are you crying?"

"Merlin," Arthur stammers, "Y-you're...you're..."

"I'm what?" Merlin prompts. Arthur twists to look down at where Merlin’s bloodied form lay moments ago, only to see the body absent from the forest ground. He turns to gape at Merlin standing, miraculously, alive.

"You're okay," He says dumbly.

"No, I've been working for you all day," Merlin replies smoothly. "Why're you out here?"

"I thought...I thought I heard..." Arthur struggles to find the words to explain what had just happened, despite the fact that he barely knows himself. "The wolf, didn't you see it?"

"A wolf?" Merlin repeats, "There aren't any wolves in the Camelot woods, you know that better than I do. Are you feeling alright?"

 _No,_ Arthur wants to scream, _I thought you were dead._ Instead, he regains his composure and says, "Yes, of course I'm alright, why wouldn't I be? You must have hit your head on a tree or something. Come on, let's go back to camp and you can cook dinner."

Merlin makes a face, following it up with a warm grin. Arthur waits to make sure Merlin is with him before walking briskly back through the woods.

On the walk back to camp, Arthur keeps unusually close to his servant, allowing their shoulders to brush. He looks over at Merlin more times than strictly necessary, studying him curiously, and Merlin looks confused, but says nothing. The casual banter has died between them, replaced with a loud, awkward silence. Merlin seems calm, Arthur notes, if a bit worried about Arthur's mental state. However Merlin is not displaying the kind of trauma one normally would after getting eaten by a wolf. There is no evidence whatsoever that he had been in any kind of danger tonight.

Arthur stares hard at Merlin with wide eyes as Merlin lights the fire and cooks their dinner. Arthur accepts his bowl with a tiny nod of thanks and watches as Merlin helps himself and settles across from him.

"Are you sure you're alright?" He says around a mouthful of stew, "You're really quiet. You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Long day," Arthur replies halfheartedly, "Shut up and eat." Merlin shrugs and they finish their meal in silence. They keep their eyes on each other, Arthur looking fearfully at a suspicious and confused Merlin.

When the food is finished, they lay out their sleeping mats, and a strange jolt of paranoia courses through Arthur when he sees Merlin set up his sleeping mat a few yards away.

"No," He says suddenly, before he knows what he's doing, "Over here." He gestures to the empty space on the ground next to him.

"What for?" Merlin asks.

"Does there need to be a reason?" Arthur snaps. "Just do as I say."

Merlin grins cheekily. "Sire, there's no shame in admitting you're afraid of the dark."

"I am not afraid of the dark!" Arthur protests indignantly, "I just thought it might be best if we share body heat tonight. It's a bit cold, if you couldn't tell."

Merlin looks at him unconvinced, but doesn't protest. He moves his sleeping mat beside Arthur's, and the two settle in. Merlin falls asleep instantly. Arthur doesn't sleep at all that night.

*

The next morning comes crisp and cool. Arthur and Merlin find the other Knights and return to the castle with the results of their hunt. On the ride back, Arthur is stony and silent, refusing to speak lest his fears spill out. The others exchange worried glances, but remain quiet, for which Arthur is grateful.

A few tense days pass, the kingdom functioning with the usual routine. Arthur, however, is jumpy, especially around Merlin. He snaps at him constantly, a dull pain festering in his temples each time he is reminded of Merlin’s not-death. He wants to apologize to Merlin, because he knows that it isn't his fault, whatever it is that happened back there, but somehow he can't bring himself to say he’s sorry without revealing what he saw in the woods. He tells himself that it was just a trick of the mind, not significant enough to share. The people would riot, he imagines, demanding he step down before Camelot falls under his madness. So he continues to yell, and at the end of each day, he sends an increasingly bewildered Merlin from his chambers.

The sun goes down on the fourth day since the incident, and Arthur settles into bed thinking that whatever happened, it's over and done with. Merlin is safe. He's wrong.

The second time it happens, Arthur is out on the fields, training his Knights, sixty seconds into a battle with Percival.

The sunlight beats down, only just able to burn away the morning chill. In his armor, Arthur has worked up a sweat, his blood thrumming with adrenaline as he advances on Percival, swinging and blocking with each clang of the sword.

Then there's a loud shout and Arthur startles, spinning around wildly to find the source of the sound. In his distraction he fails to block a swing, and his arm is grazed by the tip of Percival's sword. Arthur stumbles, but barely notices, for he is transfixed on the scene in front of him.

Merlin lies facedown in the grass, the bloody blade of the sword he was polishing protruding from his back.

"Merlin," Arthur freezes, his eyes glued to Merlin's still form. His breath stutters to a halt in his throat, then returns to him full force, coming in sharp shallow inhales, raw and ragged.

"Sire?" Percival says behind him, and Arthur glances around-- why is nobody else staring at Merlin, horrified? Even Gwaine is sitting on the sidelines, chatting easily with Elyan, ignoring his fallen friend.

"Merlin!" Arthur yells in a strangled cry, and takes a shaky step forward, thinking only how? How can Merlin be dead?

"My lord?" He's attracted the attention of the other Knights now, the men turning concerned faces towards their King.

"Do you not see?" Arthur tears his eyes from the ground to spin and face his men. They all have worried expressions, but their attention is only for him.

He gesticulates wildly behind him. Words fail him suddenly, because there's no way, absolutely no way he can make himself say the words. Merlin can't be dead, he can't be, and yet there he is...

"Yes, Arthur?" Arthur whirls around at the sound of the familiar voice, and there's his servant rushing towards him. "Did you need something?"

"But-- what..." Arthur sputters, looking around him. The ground is clean and bloodless, and there's a polished sword leaning against a bench, and miraculously, there's Merlin standing in front of him, his body free of wounds and very much alive.

"You..."

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

Arthur fights the urge to rush forward and grab the other man and cry. Instead he stands there, trembling, and tries not to hyperventilate. "You're...what happened?"

Merlin raises an eyebrow. "I ran out of oil, so I got more."

"You didn't say anything."

"It was just for your sword, calm down!"

"I -- I thought -- You are not to go wandering off like that!" Arthur snaps.

Merlin raises his eyebrows. "You mean I'm not to attend to my duties if they're not right next to you?"

"Exactly!" Arthur exclaims, "You imbecile! What if I needed something? I shouldn't have to wait around for my useless, idiot of a servant to come meandering back because he decided to take a stroll off to who knows where! From now on you stay, got that? Or do I have to spell it out for you?"

Merlin stares, his mouth slightly agape at Arthur's outburst. His body goes rigid, and his face goes dark. "Yes, sire," He spits.

Arthur can feel the eyes of his Knights burning holes through his armor. When he turns to face them, some look away respectfully, but others continue to stare curiously after the King’s outburst. Arthur awkwardly clears his throat and waves his hand, gesturing for Percival to start again.

That night, Merlin is cold as he serves the King. Arthur would have missed their usual playful banter, but he's still reeling from the events of the day. He sits in his chair with his face in his hands, trying to will the image of Merlin's bloody body from his mind. They circulate his thoughts, the two ways he had seen Merlin die already, and as each image comes into focus he shudders and tries unsuccessfully to stop himself from trembling.

"Will there be anything else, sire?"

Looking up to see Merlin looking at him angrily, jaw set, Arthur feels a pang of guilt. He wants to jump up and cling to him, make sure that he's still flesh and blood, and not some kind of spirit. Instead, he just stares at Merlin for a long second, then says, "No, you're dismissed."

Merlin turns on his heel and leaves the room without so much as a nod. Arthur keeps his eyes on the spot where Merlin stood, unable to move from his seat. Fear bubbles up in him-- what if Merlin dies again tonight? A series of sickening images flood his mind: Merlin tripping down the stairs, or getting in a bar fight, or falling from the parapets of the palace. Arthur bites his lip until he tastes blood.

His mind returns to Merlin's dead body again, and he has to stop himself from screaming. Sitting rigid in his chair, the memories of Merlin’s deaths keep Arthur’s eyes wide open. Arthur still hasn't moved when the sun rises.

*

The next day Merlin walks in to find the King with his hands braced on the windowsill, staring out at nothing. Merlin drops the breakfast plate onto the table with a tight “Good morning, sire.” At the sound of his voice Arthur turns and stares at his manservant, as if trying to hold him in place with his gaze. Merlin shifts uncomfortably.

“Did you get any sleep at all last night?” Merlin asks, the annoyance from the previous night dissolving from his tone when he sees the bags underneath Arthur’s eyes.

Arthur pauses before answering. “I require a bath,” he says. “Now. Go.”

The irritation returns to Merlin’s features full force. With a clenched jaw he turns and flees the room.

Arthur gives a weary sigh and contemplates the plate of food on the table. He doesn't want to eat, ignoring the fact that he barely ate anything the night before. He picks up a roll at tears off a chunk with his teeth. It tastes of wood and he spits it out immediately.

Soon Merlin returns with the bathtub full of steaming water. Neither of them say anything as the tub is set down and Arthur moves behind the changing screen to peel off his sleep clothes.

As he tugs his shirt over his shoulder, Arthur rolls his neck, feeling the tension in his muscles. He aches all over from sitting up in the chair all night. He has experience with this, from his days as a prince, poring over maps and documents, sitting up through the night knowing there’s a battle to be fought and men to bury.

Merlin is mysteriously silent. Arthur ponders his servant as he strips off his breeches and reaches for a towel to wrap around his waist. The fear from before is still there, the images of Merlin’s dead body still seared into the forefront of Arthur’s mind. He tries to shake it off, reminding himself that Merlin is not, in fact, dead. He knows he should go see Gaius and see if he’s been slipped some sort of hallucinogen, but rumors are easily spread, and who knows what the people would do if they thought their King was mad?

Arthur sighs as he steps out from behind the changing screen, his body aching for the warm water to soothe it.

His mind stutters when he sees the image before him. Merlin’s body lies still, his head, shoulders, and upper torso dunked in Arthur’s bathtub. The rest of him is hung over the edge of the tub and sprawled on the floor, water dripping into a growing puddle on the stone.

“No,” Arthur breathes, and he rushes forward. He hauls Merlin up and dumps him on the floor, sending water everywhere. A trembling hand is pressed against Merlin’s heart, and two fingers to his neck, desperately feeling for a pulse, but Arthur knows that it’s already too late. Merlin’s eyes stare blindly unseeingly to the ceiling.

For a few moments Arthur is frozen in disbelief. Before tears can form in his eyes, he stands abruptly and turns, pausing only to secure his towel around his waist as he barrels from the room. To hell with decency, he thinks. There are more important things to be dealt with.

He ignores the startled gasps and stares from the servants and nobles he passes as he charges through the castle. His only thought is to get to Gaius’ chambers.

_This isn’t happening this isn’t happening this isn’t happening--_

Arthur turns the last corner and collides with another body. He registers a shock of black hair and blue eyes and--

“Merlin!”

“Arthur! What’s going on! Why aren’t you wearing clothes?”

Arthur ignores him, choosing instead to grab Merlin by the shoulders and roughly shake him.

“You’re real?” he demands, “You’re really here? You’re not a phantom, or a ghost?”

Merlin gives him an incredulous look.

“What? Yes-- I mean no, of course I’m not a ghost! I’m me!”

Arthur grips him tighter. “But you’re real? You’re alive?”

“Yes, of course I am! Why wouldn’t I be?”

Arthur stares at Merlin’s bewildered face, and suddenly it registers how insane this must look: The King, almost naked, grabbing his manservant and yelling about ghosts. He awkwardly clears his throat and drops his hands from Merlin’s shoulders. He fixes him with another stare before turning on his heel and almost running back to his chambers.

“Arthur, wait!”

Arthur doesn’t look around as Merlin jogs beside him, doesn’t even acknowledge him there. He bursts into his room and rushes forward, eyes scanning the place.

The bathtub is still sitting in the center of the floor, steam rising lazily to the ceiling. There’s no water on the stone floor, and more importantly, no sign of a drowned manservant.

Arthur struggles to maintain his breathing. Eyes fixed on the tub, he takes a shaky step into the room.

“Arthur,” Merlin says nervously behind him. “What’s wrong with you? What’s going on?”

Arthur turns, and the look on his servant’s face is concerned and worried. Any trace of irritation from the previous night is gone.

He shakes his head and rushes to his bed. Distantly he’s aware of his towel slipping off, but he can’t bring himself to care. He reaches his bed and starts to tear at the linens, tossing pillows and blankets over his shoulder.

“What the hell are you doing?” Merlin shouts. Arthur rips the sheets off the mattress and vigorously shakes them, growling in frustration when nothing falls from them. He drops them to the floor and falls to his knees, peering underneath his bed, crawling until he’s half obscured, his legs flailing about behind him.

“Sire!” Merlin’s voice reaches him, but he doesn’t listen. Arthur reaches out an arm and rummages, searching for a mandrake root, or a sack of burning herbs, or _something_.

“There must be something here,” He grits out. “Something, something for hallucinations, it has to be sorcery, it must be.”

“Sorcery?” Merlin echoes, and when Arthur doesn’t reply, two hands wrap around his ankles and yank him from underneath the bed.

“Arthur!” Merlin snaps. “What about sorcery? What’s been going on with you lately?”

“What’s been going on with me?” Arthur says, twisting to look at Merlin. “It’s not what’s wrong with me, it’s what’s wrong with you!”

“There’s nothing wrong with me!” Merlin shouts, holding out a hand to help Arthur to his feet. “You’re the one who’s been acting odd lately, not me. Tell me what’s been going on.”

“You keep--” Arthur stops himself, trying to work out how exactly to word this without sounding mad. A dozen phrases tumble through his mind.

“I keep what?” Merlin prompts when Arthur goes too long without speaking.

How can he phrase this without sounding mad? In the end, he decides not to. “You keep messing things up.” Arthur says. Merlin’s eyebrows shoot to the cieling.

“Excuse me?”

“You never do anything right! Like yesterday, wandering off without telling me where you were going, what kind of servant does that? You bumble around like the incompetent fool you are, breaking everything you touch! It’s ridiculous! I don’t know why I don’t fire you on the spot!” Arthur is aware that he’s babbling, but he doesn’t care.

“What does this have to do with the sheets? Or you running around the castle naked, for that matter?” Merlin says, anger creeping back into his voice.

“I needed you to attend to me here, but as you very well know you weren’t here, so I had to go looking for you.”

Merlin’s jaw drops in indignation. “I was simply off getting some herbs, _sire_ , since you had a rough night and I thought you would appreciate them. Obviously I was wrong.”

Arthur winces as guilt settles in his stomach. He pauses for a moment, reeling for something to say.

“That’s no excuse. From now on you will tell me where you are going at all times. You are not to go wandering off.”

“Wha-- It’s not like I need to be watched all the time, you know there is this thing called privacy!”

Arthur stares at Merlin, trying desperately to come up with something to say.

“And another thing,” Merlin says, his voice rising in volume, “This has never bothered you before! Usually you want me as out of the way as possible! You’re always going on about how much you hate dealing with me! Why do you suddenly need me with you at all times?”

“I need to make sure you don’t break anything!” Arthur says, fighting hard to keep his voice steady. This weak attempt at a comeback seems to be the last straw. Merlin closes his mouth and draws himself up, indignation radiating from his expression. He stares hard at the King, then gives an angry huff of breath and storms past him.

“Where are you going?” Arthur yells.

“None of your business!” Merlin shouts back.

“Merlin! I am the King, and I order you to stay where you are!” Arthur shouts, rushing to catch up to his servant, but Merlin is already out the door.

*

It takes less than an hour for it to happen again. After Arthur gets dressed and sets about looking for his angry servant, he finds him in the kitchens, room empty save for Merlin’s body surrounded by flames. Arthur’s breath speeds up and he hastily pulls his tunic over his nose to block the scorching smoke that currently consumes the air. Arthur backs out, his eyes fixed on Merlin’s roasting body.

As he retreats, he runs into someone, and he is greeted by a very irritated Merlin. Merlin doesn’t say anything, simply storms off again. Arthur looks back into the kitchens, already knowing that the room would be empty and fire-free.

The King tugs his tunic down again and takes a shuddering breath, filling his lungs with clean air. Whatever is happening, he needs to figure it out soon. He starts out after Merlin.

“Merlin, wait!”

Merlin doesn’t reply, but he does slow his step, allowing Arthur to catch up with him.

“Merlin, just because you’re angry doesn’t mean you get out of doing your chores today.”

“Really? I thought you said I break everything I touch? Wouldn’t it just be better if I stayed out of your way and let a more capable servant do it?” He doesn’t bother to look at Arthur.

Arthur sighs. “Finding a competent servant would take too long. Just...go do your chores.”

“Fine,” Merlin says curtly, stopping so suddenly that Arthur has to backtrack. “What do I have to do?”

Arthur opens his mouth. He wants to keep Merlin somewhere where Arthur can keep an eye on him, but there are many things he has to do. He has to train the Knights, then attend council and numerous meetings, and so on and so forth.

Arthur is momentarily paralyzed by the thought of Merlin accompanying him to the training field, where there are Knights and swords and a dozen lethal ways for Merlin to die. It’s already happened once before.

“You are to...muck out the stables.” Arthur’s mind conjures up the image of all the horses being set free in a stampede, Merlin being crushed beneath the hooves of the royal steeds. Bile rises up in his throat.

“No!” He shouts, a bit louder than necessary, causing Merlin to startle. “Actually no, don’t do that. Go scrub my floors. No! Don’t do that either.”

Merlin’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. Confusion mixes with the irritation in his face. Arthur struggles, trying to find a suitable solution. With each task he thinks of, he thinks of a way that task could end in Merlin’s demise. Scrubbing the floor: Slipping and hitting his head. Doing the laundry: Suffocation or drowning. Beating the curtains clean: Asphyxiation. Exercising the dogs: Mutilation.

“Just...” He trails off, searching for an answer. “You know what, go help Gaius today, I’m sure he could use your help, what with that flu that’s going around.”

Merlin’s eyebrows travel higher. Both men know there is no such flu.

“Then you will attend to me in my meetings. Got that?” Arthur can’t see any way for Merlin to die in a council meeting, except possibly from boredom. “And you are not to leave Gaius’ chambers until I send for you,” he adds.

Merlin’s cheeks color with an angry red tinge. He contemplates Arthur for a moment. A tiny crease forms between his eyebrows, caused by whatever he found in the King’s eyes. Finally, he gives a slow nod and leaves, annoyance and something else shown on his face.

Arthur lets out a breath when the chamber doors close. As soon as Merlin’s gone, he tears across the room to his cupboard. He wrenches it open and starts tearing out clothes, shaking out tunics, turning them inside out, then throwing them over his shoulder.

When he’s done there he moves on to his private chest, where he keeps keys, coins, and other valuables that he’d never dare show anyone. Inside there’s a small locket that had belonged to his mother that matches the ring on Arthur’s thumb. Arthur had never been able to wear the locket, opting to keep this piece of sentiment hidden. He runs his thumb affectionately over the smooth metal briefly before shoving it aside and continues his search.

Suddenly, there’s a knock at the door, and Arthur jerks to attention.

“Sire?” Calls a voice. It’s Leon.

“Yes, yes, enter!” Arthur calls, and Sir Leon enters the room. As soon as he does, his eyebrows raise and he pauses, startled by what he sees. Arthur looks around and almost startles himself.

He is surrounded with junk, his chambers strewn with objects carelessly tossed over his shoulder in his mad search for whatever is enchanting him. But he hadn’t gone through quite that much of his possessions, had he? Looking around the room, he sees chests and closets with their doors hanging open, drawers ripped almost completely from their holders, their contents spilling to the stone floor. Arthur even sees a few vases overturned, the shards of an unfortunate one lying on the floor amidst the flowers it once held. Arthur’s mind clouds with confusion. He doesn’t remember smashing a vase in his hunt. He hasn’t even been searching for that long, has he? He turns a quizzical expression to Sir Leon, who is giving him a slightly concerned look.

“Sire, the Knights are wondering why you aren’t on the training fields,” Leon says, his voice slow and tentative. Arthur frowns.

“Training doesn’t start until a few hours from now.”

“Training was supposed to start a few hours ago,” Leon corrects him. “It’s nearing lunchtime, sire. Has training been canceled this morning?” He casts a questioning glance at the wreck of a room.

“Um,” Arthur says articulately. “Yes, I’ve had a rather hectic morning. I’m feeling a bit poorly.”

Leon raises an eyebrow. “Oh. Are you alright?”

“Fine, yes. Tell the Knights they have the rest of the morning off.”

“Right,” Leon says, eyebrow still raised. “Thank you, sire.” With a bow of his head and a final questioning glance around the room, he departs.

For a moment Arthur stands in the middle of the mess, stupefied. Time hasn’t gone that quickly, has it? He shakes his head to collect himself.

“Right,” he mutters. He grabs his sword and strides from the room. Whatever is giving him these hallucinations, it isn’t in his room. He needs to find the source, and fast. Arthur picks up the pace to find Merlin. If he has to see him die again, he doesn’t think he’ll be able to take it.

*

“Arthur, really, why are you being like this?”

“Leave it.”

“You need to tell me. Maybe I can help.”

“I said leave it, Merlin!” Arthur’s harsh tone sends Merlin into silence. Arthur glares at him for a brief moment before returning to his food.

“I don’t understand why you made me eat here instead of in Gaius’ chambers,” Merlin says, looking down at his own dinner plate.

“Oh stop complaining, you should be honored to have the privilege of dining with the King,” Arthur says around a mouthful of chicken. He’s starving-- he hasn’t really eaten since the day before.

“I’m not complaining,” Merlin replies, lifting his fork to his mouth to wolf down food obscenely. “I just don’t get why you suddenly want me around more.”

Arthur sighs and Merlin rattles on: “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love the palace food, it’s a lot better than whatever it is Gaius cooks...but don’t tell him I said that. It’s just that, you’ve never wanted me to eat with you before. I mean I always serve you, obviously, but I never actually eat with you.”

Merlin pauses his ramblings to shovel a forkful of pork into his mouth. It seems the anger from earlier today has dissipated somewhat in favor of a good meal. Arthur glares at him across the table, the command to shut up dancing on the tip of his tongue, but oddly, he can’t bring himself to say the words. Merlin’s never-ending prattle is reassurance that the man is still there, alive and well. A silent Merlin could mean a dead Merlin, and Arthur can’t stand that.

He shudders, closing his eyes against the memory of a few hours previous. Merlin was standing behind him in court, just outside of Arthur’s sight. As some old man spoke about some kids loitering about his farm, Arthur had heard the unmistakable sound of a body hitting the ground. His neck snapped around, already knowing that he would see Merlin lying unconscious, an arrow lodged in his chest. He stared at the blood seeping from his servant’s still form, before realizing that the court had fallen silent. He reluctantly turned back to the farmer, clearing his throat and telling the man to proceed. He tried to focus on the man’s story, but his he couldn’t make himself listen anymore, too busy fretting over the fate of his servant. He knew that Merlin wasn’t killed, not really. It wouldn’t be logical. The court would be in uproar, not for the sake of Merlin, but for the close proximity that the arrow had come to the King. Besides, why would someone want to kill Merlin specifically? It didn’t make sense. So when Arthur chanced a discreet glance behind him, he saw Merlin standing beside him, looking the same as he had before but looking at Arthur with a hint of concern.

Arthur opens his eyes, willing the memory away from his mind. As soon as the freshest memory is gone, it is replaced with one of Merlin burning in the kitchens, which morphs into Merlin drowning in Arthur’s bathtub, which turns into Merlin eaten by wolves...

Suddenly Arthur realizes that Merlin has gone quiet, his chatter replaced by a horrible choking sound. Arthur focuses on the goblet of wine in front of him. The choking gets louder, and Arthur clenches his jaw, staring hard at the silver. He will not look, not this time. He will not see Merlin die again, not when he knows it isn’t real.

There’s a crash as a goblet is knocked over, and wine splashes across the table into Arthur’s vision. Still he refuses to turn his head, even as he hears the scrape of the chair against the wooden floor and a body hitting the stone. Arthur screws his eyes shut and clamps his hands over his ears, trying to block out the vile sounds of death-- _its not real, he’s not dying, it’s just a trick, it’s in my head, it’s all just in my head, it’s not real, it’s not real, IT’S NOT REAL--_

But the choking isn’t stopping. Arthur grinds his hands further against his ears and clenches his teeth so hard that they threaten to crack, and a tiny groan escapes from the back of his throat, because this should be over by now. Nobody takes this long to choke to death.

The choking is getting louder, so Arthur’s voice rises to match the sound. He whimpers and groans, his limbs and head drawing in, and the sounds fill his head and they aren’t going away, and still he refuses to look.

_No, no, nononononono--_

“Arthur!”

Arthur’s eyes fly open at the sounds of Merlin’s voice and the feel of a warm hand, steady against his shoulder. Merlin’s chest comes into his vision. Slowly his eyes travel up, passing over that ridiculous scarf, then his neck, his chin, his nose, and then finally he meets Merlin’s eyes, deep and blue and alive.

A small, rather hysterical yelp of laughter escapes Arthur. Merlin is sitting across from him, his food forgotten in favor of scrutinizing Arthur. His expression is confused and a bit frightened, his eyes wide and his pale cheeks holding just a hint of rosiness. Merlin looks alarmed and probably thinks Arthur is insane, but all that matters is that he isn’t dead. As Arthur stares, Merlin slowly draws his hand back from Arthur's shoulder. Arthur misses the contact immediately.

“Are you alright?” Merlin asks wildly. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” Arthur says simply, “Nothing happened. All is well.”

“You were rocking back and forth like a child,” Merlin points out. “You were covering your ears and groaning and everything.”

“Was I?” Arthur asks mildly, grabbing his wine and downing it in two gulps. The liquid that escapes and dribbles down either side of his lips doesn’t make a good case, but he tries to maintain the facade. As he sets the goblet down, he notices that his hands are violently shaking. He sets them in his lap, hoping Merlin hadn’t seen.

“You’re sweating. You were terrified of something.”

“No,” Arthur says. “I wasn’t.”

“Don’t try and deny anything, Arthur,” Merlin says. “Tell me what’s been going on with you lately.”

“Nothing,” Arthur tells him. “You have been an incompetent servant. So, nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Arthur,” Merlin says harshly, leaning forward and pinning the King with his gaze. Arthur can’t help but notice that Merlin is so close that his breath is ghosting upon his own face. He smiles at the reassurance that Merlin’s windpipe is wonderfully free of food.

“I think I’m going to retire for the night,” Arthur says, pushing his chair back and moving towards the bed. Merlin stands to follow.

“Are you sure nothing’s wrong, sire?” He says as he lifts Arthur’s shirt over his head.

“Really, Merlin, it’s fine,” Arthur climbs into bed, avoiding Merlin’s gaze.

“Right,” Merlin says slowly, drawing out the word. “If there’s nothing else, then…”

“No,” Arthur says, holding up a hand to stop Merlin from leaving. “Actually, tonight you’ll be staying here.”

“Here?” Merlin asks. “Why?”

“Just do it,” Arthur mutters, sliding down so that he’s lying on the pillows. “There are blankets and pillows over there.” He waves his hand vaguely in the direction of the cupboard.

“But…” Merlin’s confused voice is muffled by Arthur’s pillow over his ears. God, it’s been such a long, stupid day, why can’t Merlin just shut up and let him sleep?

“Just go to sleep, Merlin, and if you don’t shut up in the next ten seconds you are sleeping on the floor without a pillow.”

Arthur takes Merlin’s silence as surrender. He closes his eyes and burrows gratefully deeper into his blankets, letting his fatigue overcome him. After not sleeping the night before, and the horrifying day he had, sleep sounds like nothing short of brilliant. It doesn’t take long before he blissfully falls into unconsciousness.

*

When Arthur wakes, it’s to his too-quiet chambers. Blearily he opens his eyes and blinks up at the crack in the curtains, where watery sunlight filters through to fall across his face.

He lifts his head and looks around. There’s no sound other than his breathing and the rustle of his blankets as he sits up. Listening hard, he sits perfectly still. The sound of someone else’s breathing is absent. He’s alone in his chambers.

He swings his legs off of the bed and stands to stretch, rolling his shoulders and neck. A full night’s sleep in his bed did him good, though he hardly feels rested. The weariness of the previous day still settles on his shoulders, and the dark horror still lingers in his mind.

When he rounds the bed he is greeted with a mess of blankets on the floor, a shock of black hair visible amongst the fabric. Arthur walks over and kneels down, placing a trembling hand on Merlin’s shoulder to roll him onto his back, cursing softly when he sees Merlin’s face.

His cheeks and forehead are covered in large, angry green and red welts that stretch and cover his skin, some of them oozing pus that glisten in the morning light. Merlin’s eyes are swollen shut, the skin around his eyes puffy and grey and shining with sweat. His sickly greenish tongue is exposed from his lolling mouth.

Arthur looks away, sickened. So it was disease this time.

He stands and walks away, not allowing himself to look at Merlin again. He opens his cupboard and grabs the first tunic his hand comes in contact with, pulling it on as he hurries away, not bothering to change his trousers or to put on shoes.

He notices that the dishes from the previous night’s dinner have been cleared, despite the fact that he didn’t tell Merlin to clean. He moves to the jug beside the window and pours a goblet of water, draining it quickly, chasing the droplets from his lips with the tip of his tongue. Staring out at the sky, he wonders what to do.

It’s obvious he’s under some kind of curse, but Arthur can’t figure out its meaning. His hallucinations are taking their toll on the King, but it hasn’t prevented him from attending matters of state. Yesterday he sat through court and council meetings, despite Merlin’s dead form flashing through his mind every time he closed his eyes.

True, he had missed training yesterday, but that was one time, and he had been otherwise occupied. He won’t miss another practice because of this. He’ll be forced to live with this horrible enchantment for a while longer until he can figure out how to end it.

Of course, that’s where it can start. One missed morning of training can lead to two, and then to an entire day of skirted duties, all for the sake of his servant. Perhaps the enchanter means for him to go insane and fail to run his kingdom? Well, that certainly won’t happen. Arthur is a strong King, and he won’t let such a thing as this get in the way of his duties.

He scrubs a hand over his face and turns away from the window. Why Merlin? Why would the sorcerer target Merlin for Arthur to see die every day? Why not Guinevere, or Gaius, or one of the Knights? All are dear to him, and seeing their deaths would affect him just as much as Merlin’s. So why him?

Unfortunately, Merlin is far dearer to Arthur than he cares to admit. True, each of those mentioned before have a special place in the King’s heart, but Arthur’s affection for Merlin is something else entirely. Merlin something of a best friend, loath though he is to admit it. Ever since that first day when they met, all those years ago, there had been something between them, some unspoken connection that Arthur had never felt before. As time went on, Arthur couldn’t help feeling he owed Merlin some kind of debt. He watched as Merlin changed from boy to man, always standing at his side through everything, from the Unicorn to his father’s death. In a way, Merlin and Arthur have grown up together, and share a bond unlike any other Arthur knows of, something different than brothers or friends. It makes sense, then, that the spell would target Merlin.

His thoughts return to the spell. Who cast it, and how can he break it? How is the magic taking hold of him? He turns and pours another goblet of water. Raising it to his lips, he drinks, trying to come up with ways in which the magic could be filtering into his life. He tore his room apart, and yet his search yielded nothing. So the question is, how is he being enchanted?

The thought hits him that perhaps someone is slipping something into his food. Perhaps it is a potion, as clear and inconspicuous as water, simple to hide, with the surety that the King would drink it sooner or later. Even as simple as his morning goblet of water.

He gags, his eyes flying wide open, and he drops the goblet, water splashing all over his bare feet. Water sprays from his spluttering mouth and dribbles down his chin. He reaches for a cloth to wipe himself and to hold to his mouth as he coughs, choking on the water he inhaled. His gags are reminiscent of the dying sounds Merlin made last night at dinner, and he coughs more violently at the memory. He spits into the cloth, scrambling away from the water he dropped.

Then the door opens and Merlin rushes in, a plate of breakfast balanced in each hand. Arthur straightens up in a futile attempt at nonchalance, still slightly choking.

“You alright?” Merlin asks tentatively, as he sets the plates on the table. Arthur eyes them with the utmost suspicion.

“Yes, yes I’m fine. Just a bit of a cough, that’s all.”

“Right,” Merlin says, watching Arthur with a suspiciously. “Well, I’ve got breakfast for you.”

“Yes, thank you.” Arthur says, but makes no move to sit down. “You brought two plates.” He waves a hand at the food.

“I assumed you would want me to eat with you again, for whatever mad reason you had last night,” Merlin informs him, taking his seat.

“For once in your life you were right.” Arthur moves to sit down, and Merlin slides one plate in front of him, already digging into his share of eggs, sausages, and bread. As he eats, Merlin watches Arthur thoughtfully.

Arthur turns away from him, not wanting to see Merlin die yet again. He studies his food, sitting innocently on the plate, looking exactly as it does every other morning. He prods it with his fork, pushing it around his plate. It seems harmless, no different than every other breakfast he’s ever had. He rolls the sausage links aside, but finds no suspicious liquid or crystals hiding amongst the meat. Then again, the poison could be disguised to look like salt, spread over everything he eats, unnoticeable.

“Is something wrong with the food?” Merlin asks him. Arthur lifts his gaze and looks over at the water jug, where the goblet is still on the floor in a puddle of water. He gestures to it with his fork.

“That water, where does it come from?” He wonders, ignoring Merlin’s question.

“It comes from the well in the courtyard.”

“The same one that everyone else uses?”

“Everyone in the citadel, yes.”

Arthur hums thoughtfully. “Who handles it before it reaches me?” He asks.

“Only I do,” Merlin answers. “Why, what’s wrong with it?”

“Nobody else?” Arthur demands, turning to stare into Merlin’s eyes. “You’re telling me that you fetch it and pour it, and nobody else touches it before it reaches this room for me to drink?”

“Y...es?” Merlin says, looking doubtful that he had given the answer Arthur was looking for.

“What about the food?” Arthur asks.

“That’s made by the cook,” Merlin says. “Well, specifically, the food is grown and raised by farmers, then collected and put into storage, then servants take it from there to give to the cook, and then I take it and bring it up here to you.”

Arthur considers this, then pushes the plate away from him. “I’m not hungry,” he announces.

“What?” Merlin’s jaw falls open in disbelief. “You’re always hungry! In all my years of service you have never denied a meal!”

“Yes, well...” Arthur struggles to come up with an explanation. He is saved, however, when Merlin’s eyes narrow as a thought comes to him.

“Do you think someone is trying to poison you?”

Arthur hesitates, then nods slightly. “I’ve become a bit suspicious. There have been rumors that there’s an assassination in the works.”

“What rumors? I haven’t heard anything like that. Not lately anyways.”

“I’m the King, Merlin, there’s always someone trying to kill me.”

“True,” Merlin concedes. “But I haven't heard anything from the other servants, and they're usually the first to know castle gossip." "Maybe this person is sly." Merlin sighs. "You still need to eat.”

“How can I trust this food?” Arthur asks helplessly.

“You can trust this,” Merlin promises. “From now on I’ll taste your food before you eat it.”

“No!” Arthur almost screams. Merlin jumps, startled. “I mean, if it is poisoned, you’ll die.”

Merlin heaves an exasperated sigh. “It’s alright Arthur, really. You don’t have to worry about me, I can take care of myself.”

“You’ve nearly taken poison for me before,” Arthur reminds him. “You almost died then.”

“And if it happens again, I’ll be happy to rely on Gaius to find a remedy. Really, if you’re worried someone is trying to kill you, you shouldn’t be afraid to take precautions.”

Arthur bites his tongue, afraid that if he speaks, he’ll tell Merlin exactly why that won’t work. He’ll just see Merlin die anyways.

“You can’t stop me, Sire,” Merlin says, his eyes boring into Arthur’s with determination.

Arthur struggles. “Fine,” He rasps. “If my health means that much to you, and if you have such disregard for your own life, fine.”

Merlin nods once, then returns to eating his breakfast. Arthur looks back down at his plate, the food looking no more appetizing as before. Still, Merlin is looking at him with a face that says if he doesn’t eat it, he will personally poison the King anyways. Arthur drops his head in defeat and pulls the plate towards him, feeling like a child being forced to eat his greens.

Arthur contemplates the plate sitting on the table, feeling no desire to eat it. He refuses to look up at Merlin, so he continues his staring match with his breakfast.This is ridiculous. He's the bloody King, servants don't get to tell him what to do!

“Your food is going to get cold,” Merlin scolds. Arthur lifts his gaze to see Merlin sitting with his empty plate in front of him. Merlin drags a finger through the crumbs and brings it to his lips, chasing every last bit of breakfast there is to be had. Arthur supposes he’s savoring this, seeing as Merlin rarely gets to eat good food.

“Look, I’ve eaten the food, and I’m not dead,” Merlin observes. Still Arthur makes no move to eat. Merlin huffs an irritated sigh, reaches over, and plucks a sausage link off of the King’s plate.

“See?” He says, tearing the top half off in one bite. “It isn’t poisoned. Believe me, Gaius has taught me everything there is to know about poisons, and there isn’t anything unusual here.”

His words are comforting, muffled though they are by his mouthful of food. Nevertheless, Arthur can’t shake his suspicion. What if it’s programmed specifically for the King? What if the potion had a lock of hair in it, so that the magic could only affect his own mind? But Merlin is looking at him expectantly, and if Arthur doesn’t eat, he will tell someone, and word would get out that the King is going mad, which he isn’t, not even in the slightest. So Arthur picks up his fork and takes a bite.

He braces himself for Merlin to drop dead on the floor as soon as he swallows, but Merlin is still standing there, arms crossed and one eyebrow raised.

“Is it to your liking?” Merlin asks flatly. Arthur nods slowly and takes another bite.

“Good,” Merlin says, and his face splits into a grin. “Glad we got that cleared up. So, what kind of backbreaking chores have you got lined up for me today?”

Images of Merlin with a broken back spring into Arthur’s mind. “Just the usual. Same as yesterday, in fact.”

Merlin raises a skeptical eyebrow. “You want me to spend the day with Gaius again.” It’s a statement, not a question. Arthur nods, pretending it’s obvious that Merlin is the one with the head trouble.

“Just the morning, actually. I’ll send for you once council is ready to begin.”

Merlin studies Arthur hard, but doesn’t object.

“You can get me into my armor and then you can be on your way.”

He rises and moves quickly to his wardrobe, crushing Merlin’s opportunity to point out that Arthur still hasn’t eaten his breakfast.

*

Fear and fatigue blend time together, each day more horrifying than the last. In the mornings Arthur barely speaks to Merlin, sending him away to Gaius’ as quickly as possible so that Arthur can rush to the training grounds. It is only there, fighting and slashing with his sword, that he can forget about Merlin’s many deaths, if only for a moment. The fear always lingers in his mind, and Arthur tries to use it to add to his strength on the field, but it only makes him clumsy and uncoordinated. If the Knights notice his unusual ferocity and the way he almost frantically swings his sword, they don’t say anything but for a few raised eyebrows.

Except for Gwaine one morning. As Arthur keeps up his training, it gets harder and harder to forget about Merlin. As he ferociously attacks a training dummy, suddenly the straw-stuffed head turns into something else. The cold metal of the helmet morphs into pale white skin, a mop of dark hair appears at the top. Blue eyes stare out at him, frightened and helpless. Arthur yelps in surprise and stumbles backwards, losing his footing and falling in a truly undignified way onto his backside.

“Sire?” A few Knights call out to him. Arthur blinks up at the dummy to find that it is a simple sack and helmet. The blue eyes are gone.

“Alright, Arthur?” Sir Gwaine jogs over, ever-present apple in hand.

“Fine, I’m fine,” Arthur gasps, scrambling to his feet in an attempt to cover his blunder.

Gwaine smirks at him good-naturedly. “If I didn’t know any better, I would have said someone had given you a great fright.” He munches his apple, looking amused.

“I’m fine, really,” Arthur reassures him.

“I’m not so sure about that,” Gwaine replies. “You’ve been looking panicky, lately.”

Arthur gives a strangled laugh, trying to feign indifference. “How so?”

“You’ve been very nervous,” Gwaine explains, and his amused demeanor melts away to reveal his intrigue. “You keep darting your eyes about and jumping at every little sound.”

“Have I?” Arthur says faintly. He hasn’t noticed. Gwaine nods.

“You’ve been looking terrible, actually,” Gwaine muses, looking his King over. “You look as though you haven’t been sleeping. Or eating, even. Something going on?”

Arthur shakes his head. “It’s just the stress of being King catching up with me.”

Gwaine nods as if this explains everything. “Maybe you need some time off,” He suggests. Arthur sighs.

“If only,” He mutters, scrubbing a hand over his eyes. He’s aware that he’s swaying ever so slightly where he stands. Gwaine continues to study him.

“Get some proper rest, Arthur,” He says seriously, before turning and sauntering off.

Arthur looks after him, then huffs a great breath and slumps against the training dummy. He can’t keep this up. Maybe Gwaine is right, maybe he needs is some rest. But he can’t, of course he can’t. He can’t abandon his Kingdom, not even for a few days. And he most certainly can’t abandon Merlin.

He decides that he’s had enough sword training for the day. He pushes away from the dummy and trudges towards the castle. Like always, images of terror flit through his head. With each step he takes, every breath, every blink, there’s a new memory in his head of pain and blood and death. Each day has brought Arthur a dozen new ways for Merlin to die, from a heart attack to poison to falling from a window. Each brings a shiver unbidden to his spine.

* 

Arthur walks the familiar route to Gaius’ chambers. He’s sweaty and tired but he doesn’t care too much. He’s had more than enough slicing at inanimate objects today, and it’s time for rest before council. Arthur sighs inwardly at the thought of attending to such insignificant matters of state. Perhaps he should take the day off, claim some sickness, or a need to go out and get fresh air in the country, or even just remain in his chambers. At least then there are less ways for Merlin to meet his demise. Again.

Arthur climbs the stairs and drags himself down the hall to Gaius’ door. Fatigue is wearing him down, and hunger too, causing his head to feel as though it were filled with rocks and his body to move as though he is walking through water. As he approaches the room, he hears troubled voices coming from the open door. Just as he reaches the door he hears his name spoken from within, and he stills.

“...I can’t figure out what’s wrong with Arthur,” Merlin is saying. “He hasn’t been eating or sleeping and I can’t figure out why.”

“Something’s obviously troubling him,” comes the voice of the physician.

“He refuses to tell me what it is,” Merlin grumbles. “I can’t get him to tell me. Why won’t he trust me? I could help him.” Arthur feels a small twinge of guilt at the frustration in Merlin’s voice. It’s not that he doesn’t trust him, but what would be the point of Merlin knowing? He would fuss and reassure Arthur maybe, but nothing would help lift the curse.

“Looks as though you’re going to have to figure it out for yourself,” Gaius says. “Maybe it will pass.”

“No, I don’t think it will,” Merlin says sullenly. “I’ve never seen him like this. Sure he’s lost sleep and meals over a tough law or something, but it’s more than that, this time. He seems...scared of something.”

“Such as?” Gaius prompts.

“I thought maybe he was wary of an assassination attempt, since he’s been refusing his meals. But I don’t think that’s it, anymore.”

At that, Arthur’s stomach groans loudly, and for a second he thinks his position might be blown. He still doesn’t trust any food presented to him. Merlin and Gaius carry on speaking.

“Then what?”

“I think...Maybe it has something to do with me.”

Arthur sucks in a breath.

“What on earth makes you say that?” Arthur is so caught up in the conversation that he almost misses the fright in the physician’s voice.

“Everything he’s made me do these past few weeks,” Merlin says. “He makes me stay with you while he’s training, like I need to be babysat! And he makes me sleep in his chambers every night, and eat with him, and go everywhere with him. And not only that, but he keeps looking at me, like he’s terrified of what he sees.”

“Perhaps he thinks you’re the assassin?”

“If he thought that, would he keep me around him all the time?” Merlin replies. “He looks scared all the time, Gaius. Haunted. Every time he looks at me, I can see it in his eyes. There’s real fear there. Something about me terrifies him.”

Gaius scoffs at that. “I’m not sure you could terrify Arthur like that, Merlin. Unless...do you think he knows?”

“Maybe. He doesn’t look like that when he looks at anyone else. There are times when he almost looks normal when he’s talking to someone else in court, but then he’ll look at me and the fear will be back in his eyes.”

There’s a pause, and Arthur feels sick. He leans his temple against the cool stone wall, trying to steady his breath so that he won’t be heard.

“Sometimes he stares at me,” Merlin continues quietly. “He stares at me like I’ve sprouted another head. He looks on the verge of tears sometimes.”

Arthur tries not to think about the time when Merlin did sprout another head.

“Well, whatever it is, you need to set things right soon,” Gaius says. “Or else this whole kingdom will go to the dogs.”

“Arthur is doing the best he can, what with whatever he’s going through,” Merlin says, though he sounds unsure.

“Like you said, he’s not doing so well in court and council. You need to talk to him and set things right before things get out of hand.”

Arthur has had enough. He straightens up and walks into the room.

“Merlin,” He says, announcing his presence. The room’s occupants jump in surprise.

“Arthur,” Merlin says, having the shame to look sheepish.

“Am I interrupting something?” Arthur says, looking between Merlin and the physician.

“Not at all, sire,” Gaius assures him, peering at him from underneath a raised eyebrow.

“Good. Come on Merlin, it’s time to go.” He gestures back out of the room and turns to leave. From the corner of his eye he sees Merlin give Gaius a rather pointed look, before following Arthur out the door.

*

“Sire, urgent report from the patrol,” Sir Leon says as soon as he enters the room, the rest of the Knights following behind him.

“What is it?” Arthur asks, Leon’s urgency piquing his interest. The men gather around the paper-strewn table with the other nobles.

“The patrol has sighted an army headed straight for Camelot,” Leon says. “Looked to be about ten thousand men, possibly more.”

An army. Arthur grimaces. A war is not something he’s prepared for, not now.

“How long until they get here?” He asks, his eyes flickering over to Merlin standing near the wall. Except he isn’t standing anymore, he’s lying on the ground with a gaping hole in his chest. He suppresses a shudder and returns his attention to Leon.

“I’d say no more than a day, sire,” Leon answers him.

Arthur turns this over in his head.

“They appear to be led by Cenred, sire, coming from the East,” Leon continues. “We await your orders.”

Arthur mulls this over. How many Knights does Camelot have? Certainly not enough to defeat an army of that size.

“Send half the Knights out to meet them immediately,” He says, “The rest will remain here on high alert, ready to defend Camelot.”

“Sire,” Leon bows his head and takes his leave. Arthur watches his senior Knight go, then glances over at Merlin, who is scrutinizing him determinedly. Arthur clears his throat and tries to return to whatever matter that was being discussed earlier, although he’s already forgotten it.

He sinks down further into his chair as he lets a noble drone on. He blinks, his eyes growing heavy. A new fear claws its way into his mind, brought on by Leon’s news.

An attack on Camelot will surely result in many deaths. Arthur can’t be sure if he’ll be able to stomach more of that than he’s already experienced. Surely he’s already seen more horrors in these past few weeks than any other man has seen in a lifetime.

Half the amount of Knights surely will never prevail against such a large army. Many will likely die, and the rest will either be taken hostage or sent back as a warning of what is to come. Arthur knows that an attack from Cenred’s army is inevitable, and Arthur will have to take charge as King and lead his Knights into battle. But will he be able to do it? He has had so little strength as of late, and he’s become less and less coordinated. His sword techniques have become less precise, and his sentences have been somewhat less than coherent. This curse, this constant presence of death, has stripped Arthur of his ability to rule, and that could cost him the lives of his subjects. The thought chills Arthur to the bone.

*

As he watches the Knights ride away, Arthur resolves to put a stop to this problem of his. He must be strong, if he values the lives of his people.

“Merlin,” He says curtly, and his servant immediately appears at his side.

“Yes, Arthur?” He says. Arthur finds that he can’t look at Merlin easily right now. Instead, he keeps his gaze fixed on the horizon, where the last of his men are disappearing.

“I have a chore for you. My spare armor must be polished and ready by tomorrow.”

“You already had me do that yesterday.”

“Do as I say, Merlin. Go.”

In his peripheral vision he sees Merlin eye him suspiciously. It’s been a long time since Arthur sent him away for a chore. He opens his mouth as though to argue, then seems to decide against it. Finally he turns and walks away.

As soon as he’s gone, Arthur rushes in the opposite direction towards Gaius’ chambers. His feet echo through the empty halls, almost running in his haste. He crashes through the door when he reaches is, startling the physician.

“Gaius!” He says breathlessly, his eyes finding the old man sitting alone at a table, his head hanging over an open tome.

“Sire,” He says in surprise, “I wasn’t expecting to see you right now, I thought you'd be out with your other Knights.”

“I need your help,” Arthur says, closing the door and moving into the room. “I have a problem.”

“What kind of problem?” Gaius asks, his eyebrow raised.

“It’s...it’s delicate. I’m sure you’ve noticed I haven’t been acting myself lately.”

“I have,” Gaius confirms, looking uneasily at his King.

Arthur is at a loss for words, trying to come up with the best way to phrase what he needs. He breaks away from Gaius’ gaze, his eyes wandering the room until he catches his reflection on the smooth surface of a tiny looking glass propped up on the table. Arthur stares at the dark shadows haunting his eyes, dark against the pale gray of his skin. He looks tired, and his wide, bloodshot eyes make him look half insane. He returns to Gaius.

“I think I’m cursed,” He says abruptly, then catches himself. He backtracks, sucking in a deep breath and closing his eyes. “A few weeks ago, on our last hunt, I saw...I saw Merlin die, torn apart by wolves. But then I turned around and he was alive without a mark on him.”

Suddenly he finds it difficult to stand, and he stumbles his way to sit heavily on a bench. He opens his eyes, looking helplessly at the old man.

“Go on,” Gaius prompts him.

“Ever since that day, I have seen him die a hundred different ways. Each time it’s different, no matter where he is or what he’s doing, but just as I start to panic I close my eyes and when I open them again he’s alive.”

Gaius nods, concern etched into every wrinkle in his face. “I’m sorry, sire. It must be horrible.”

Arthur shudders at the sympathy in the physician’s voice. He knows how close Merlin and Gaius are. What Arthur is going through would be just as traumatizing for Gaius as it is for Arthur.

“I need your help,” Arthur repeats. “I don’t understand this curse. I don’t know who cast it or how, but they mean to drive me insane. And I think they’re succeeding.” He slams his eyes shut again at the confession. Admitting such defeat has been something he has denied even to himself up until now.

“I can’t continue ruling my kingdom like this,” He presses on. “I can’t function with such visions lurking by my side every day. It’s keeping me from casting clear judgment and it's worsening my skills. If this keeps up I will be unable to lead my men to victory against Cenred’s army and Camelot will surely fall. This has to stop.”

He warily lifts his eyelids to stare pleadingly at Gaius, who is looking at him with a mixture of sympathy and horror. “Can you help me?”

Gaius considers him for a moment. “I will do everything that I can, my lord.”

“Will you have a solution by the time Cenred reaches us tomorrow?”

“That I cannot guarantee,” Gaius says apologetically. “But until then, let me offer you some advice. Don’t keep Merlin with you so much.”

“Why not?” Arthur asks. He needs Merlin with him, as reassurance that he’s alive.

“You can’t see him die if you can’t see him at all,” Gaius says. “I suggest you let him sleep in his own chambers tonight, so that you can get some proper rest and you can be fit to fight.”

Arthur considers this. As little as he wants to part with the living Merlin, Gaius’ solution is only logical.

“Of course,” he says, accompanied by a curt nod. “Thank you, Gaius.”

“Of course, Arthur,” Says the physician with a small smile that Arthur is unable to return. He stands and makes to leave.

“Oh, and Gaius?” He says, looking back with his hand on the door latch. “Don’t tell anyone what I just told you. Especially Merlin.”

Something like understanding settles in Gaius’ face. “Of course, your highness.”

Arthur nods his thanks at the old man, then quietly leaves the room.

*

The men do not groan, exactly, but Arthur can still hear the pain screaming from the way they hold themselves. They are as poised as possible, but they hide wounds beneath their pride, their attempts to conceal them futile. Some walk with limps, some grip a bleeding gash at their sides, others cradle their arms in slings made from their bloodstained cloaks.

“What happened?” Arthur asks warily, bracing himself for the answer he knows is coming.

“I’m sorry, my lord,” Sir Leon says, his head bowed, his voice shaking. “We were vastly outnumbered by Cenred’s men. They...they overtook us immediately.”

Arthur sighs, fighting the urge to rub at the exhaustion in his eyes, stealing his thoughts from the situation at hand. His sight is drawn to their injuries, at the blood and too-wrong angles of their limbs, only helping to fuel the ever-present terror claiming the King’s mind. The Knights group in the courtyard, standing in gruff silence, waiting to be dismissed so they can sleep off or drink off their pain. Those who still have their horses hand them off to stable boys, and as soon as they are relieved of their burdens they drop all pretense, slumping their shoulders in exhaustion, some even sinking to the ground on the spot.

“How many have we lost?” Arthur asks, surveying the crowd, trying to decipher which faces are missing. His gut twists when he spots three bodies lying off to the side, and he’s glad for the white sheet covering them so that he does not have to see the specific cause for their deaths. Imagination supplies a dozen different ways they could have met their end, and he fights the urge to rip the cloth away just to have a single answer.

“We lost Sir Galahad, Sir Lamorak, and Sir Bruin,” Leon lists, his voice grim.

Arthur winces.

“Cenred met us there,” Leon reports. “He is confident that Camelot will fall tonight. I suspect he's simply trying to wind you up, so that you will put up a fight against him, sire. At least, that would be my best guess as to why he didn’t kill us all right there. I’m afraid he could have if he wanted to.”

Arthur nods in grim agreement. “Bury the bodies, and see that the Knights are properly rested and looked after. We don’t have long before the enemy reaches us. We need to be ready.”

“Right. What’s the plan?”

Arthur blinks at him. A thousand years ago he would have had people running about in preparation, barking orders with authority. He would have been calm and collected, his mind overflowing with thought-out plans to defend Camelot. But now, things are different. Fight and win, that’s all that matters. Just make the battle short.

“Uh,” He starts. “Form ranks of ten and fight until Cenred has either retreated or his men have died.”

Leon’s jaw drops open in surprise at such a blunt order from his King, until he seems to remember himself and forces his teeth shut with a click.

“Is that all?” He questions hesitantly. Arthur nods.

“Unless you have any suggestions, Sir Leon?”

“I…think it would be wise to have groups at the outer borders of the city, to stall the enemy reaching the citadel, sire.”

Arthur nods, not bothering to process his senior Knight’s suggestion.

“Good idea. See to it.”

“Of course, my lord.” A pause for a bow, then Leon retreats to give the order, cloak billowing behind him in the night breeze.

Arthur doesn’t wait any longer. He nods to the rest of his men before he turns and flees the courtyard. He’s all too aware of the eyes on his back, knowing how he must look to everyone else: Shoulders hunched and rigid, slow step, and permanent wrinkles etched into his skin from too many lost hours of sleep. He scowls down at his arms hanging uselessly by his sides, hating them, wishing they were gone just so they wouldn’t swing like that. He curls his hands into tight fists and keeps moving.

The first thing Arthur sees upon entering the castle is the familiar shape of a body lying maimed on the stone floor. Blood pours from the cadaver and pools around Arthur’s polished boots, staining them dark and ominous. Arthur sways, his eyes momentarily frozen on the sight of a standing candlestick jammed into Merlin’s abdomen, his intestines spilling out around him. The candle stand nearly topples, supported only by Merlin’s torn flesh. The feeling of fingernails digging painfully into his palms keeps Arthur grounded,so he squeezes harder, taking one, two, three shaking breaths, then forces himself to tear his eyes away and keep walking, leaving the body behind him.

“What happened?” Merlin materializes from nowhere, falling into step by Arthur’s side and shooting him a worried look.

“The Knights have returned,” Is Arthur’s response. He finds himself reaching out to lightly brush his hand against the warm side of Merlin’s neck. Raised eyebrows is the only reply he gets at the movement.

“I can see that,” Merlin says exasperatedly. “But what happened to them? They can’t have managed to fight away an entire army.”

“I admire the faith you have in my men,” Arthur grumbles. Merlin rolls his eyes.

“They’re good fighters, sure, but even they couldn’t have fought off an army of ten thousand.”

“You’re right,” Arthur concedes, his eyes staring fixedly at the stone floor as he forces his tired feet to move. He does not want to dwell on this right now. “They didn’t. We lost three men, and Cenred’s army will be here in a few hours at most.”

He hears Merlin’s quiet intake of breath. “What are we going to do?”

Arthur almost laughs. “We?” He looks up at Merlin.

“Well, yeah. What’s the strategy?”

Arthur contemplates Merlin for a moment, noting the lively redness of his cheeks that has been so absent lately.

“The Knights and I are going to fight,” He says, as they continue further into the castle. They have arrived at a battered-looking door, so old that it hasn’t been used in many years. Behind it is a staircase leading to the higher, more secluded areas of the palace. “We’ll do as much as we can until Cenred either surrenders or flees.”

“That’s it?” Merlin asks, eyebrows raised in surprise. “What, no strategy, no plans? You’re just going to go in, swords raised?”

“That’s the idea,” Arthur says. When he doesn’t hear a reply he looks around to see Merlin standing a few steps below him, staring at him incredulously. “Well, come on.”

He continues up the stairs, winding in tight circles up and up into one of the castle’s highest towers. Merlin’s worried look is somewhat obscured by the darkness as he follows.

“Arthur...” He says, suddenly looking around at the dusty, crumbling staircase. “Where are we going?”

“We’re taking a safety precaution,” Arthur answers, reaching the top and pulling a ring of keys from his belt. He slides the correct one into the lock and turns it, pushing the door open. It sticks slightly, as though it hasn’t been opened in decades. The hinges groan and the swinging door kicks up a cloud of dust.

The dark room that they enter has apparently been abandoned. Cobwebs plaster the walls and hang from the ceiling in thick white curtains, like ghosts clinging to the walls. The room is empty but for the straw and rat droppings that lay scattered across the floor, illuminated only by the moonlight let in from the single tiny window.

“Here we are,” Arthur announces, ignoring the telltale scuttle of rodent feet.

“What are we doing here?” Merlin inquires, concern creeping into his voice as he surveys the disused room.

“You are making yourself comfortable,” Arthur tells him, giving him a small push into the space.

“What? What are you talking about?” Merlin demands, whirling around to face Arthur, but Arthur is already backing out the door.

“I’ll come for you when the battle is over,” Arthur says.

“What do you mean, you’ll come for me? You’re locking me in here?”

“Yes,” Arthur says, frustrated that Merlin can’t see he’s trying to help. “I can’t have you dying in battle. Your incompetence will get you killed out there.”

Merlin gapes at him in disbelief. “You’re locking me in a tower, like a damsel in one of those children’s tales?”

“If that’s the way you want to look at it, that’s fine by me,” Arthur says, throwing up his hands.

“No-- I’m not a maiden, Arthur!” Merlin insists. “You can’t just lock me up here! I can take bloody care of myself!” He tries to budge past Arthur out of the room, but Arthur quickly blocks his step.

“There’s nothing in this room, not even a rug to trip over. You’ll be safe in here for the time being.” Arthur holds Merlin’s angry gaze, hoping to convey his desperation. Why won’t he just listen? There’s no way for him to die here. This room is the safest in the castle, perhaps in all of Camelot! Merlin should be thanking him!

Merlin shakes his head roughly. “If you think I’m just going to sit up here while you’re down there getting slaughtered...”

“Your lack of faith in my skill wounds me,” Arthur replies, his voice thick with impatience. “But I’m afraid you don’t have a choice.. I’m the King, and I’m ordering you to stay put.”

With that, he backs out the door, Merlin’s enraged face still filling his vision, only half visible in the darkness.

“I don’t even get a torch? It’s pitch black in here!” Merlin calls after him.

“No, I don’t think so” Arthur says, pulling at the door. “The flame could catch on the rat droppings.”

Merlin lets out a strangled noise somewhere between a scream and a groan and once again thrusts himself towards the door. Arthur slams it in his face, the wood shuddering at the impact of Merlin’s body. There’s a shout of pain from Merlin’s end.

“This is for your own good!” Arthur shouts, locking the door securely.

“You can’t keep me in here!” Merlin yells, pounding the door.

Arthur doesn’t respond, and he all but runs from the sound of Merlin pounding and yelling through the door. The ease of the situation far outweighs his guilt.

He rejoins the men out in the courtyard. The dead have been removed, and the rest are stretching their limbs and shifting from foot to foot, waiting for instruction from their commander. The crescent moon rises above them, bathing the scene in an eerie silver glow. The men look almost like spirits.

“Sire,” Comes Leon’s voice from behind. “The dead have been seen to and groups have been sent to defend the outer fringe of the city. Reports say Cenred has been sighted. We await further instruction.”

“Just be ready. Cenred will be here soon.”

Leon bows once again and retreats, leaving Arthur to nod to himself dazedly. He begins to wander the courtyard, luxuriating in the knowledge that he won’t see Merlin die tonight. Gaius was right, he thinks. It certainly is better for his mind without the burden of death everywhere. Perhaps he should keep Merlin up in that tower all the time. Merlin wouldn’t like it, but at least he would be safe, and Arthur wouldn’t have to look at him every day with the fear that he would see such gore. A dozen or so images flash through his mind and he shudders. Yes, he certainly can do without that. Then again, Merlin would hate Arthur forever if he was kept in that tower like a maid from a child’s tale, and certainly it would confirm any doubts of the King’s sanity.

He would miss his servant terribly, and any new servant sent his way he would surely hate. None of them are quite like Merlin, he muses as he circles around the outer edge of the courtyard, nodding to his men. Before Merlin came along he hadn’t noticed just how quiet and sickeningly polite they all were. After knowing how pleasant it can be to have a chatty servant, a silent, always-polite one is out of the question. But despite the inconveniences, it would keep Merlin safe. He’ll have to put more thought into this tower idea.

He glances around himself. Shouldn’t he be attending to something at the moment? There’s a battle to be fought soon, surely there’s more for him to do than aimlessly wander? He shakes his head when nothing of importance comes to mind. His men can look after themselves well enough, and Arthur still needs to gather his thoughts.

“Sire?”

Arthur turns to see Gaius shuffling towards him from the small group of injured knights, eyebrow raised as always in the flickering torchlight.

“Gaius,” Arthur greets. “How are my men?”

“They’re all in working order. Or at least, they should be able to fight well enough so long as they rest while they can,” Gaius informs him. Arthur nods in acknowledgment and starts to leave him to it, until the physician stops him.

“Sire?” Arthur turns. “Have you seen Merlin anywhere?”

“Ah. Do you need his help with something?” Arthur asks.

“Well, yes, there are many men who are in need of medical aid in the short time we have,” Arthur’s mind may be somewhere else, but he doesn’t miss the hints of worry in Gaius’ tone.

“No need to worry, Gaius, Merlin is fine,” Arthur reassures him.

“I had no doubts of that,” Gaius says, “I merely wanted to know if you’ve seen him. Unless you've seen him hurt today?”

Arthur flinches. “Nothing to worry about,” He says, attempting a smile. “He’s safe.”

“Safe where, might I ask?”

“Up there,” Arthur explains, waving a hand to the heavens. Gaius squints up at the high tower of the castle. “I put him there. This way he can’t die, nor can he distract me from battle.”

Gaius shoots him the eyebrow of disapproval. “I’m not sure that’s wise, your highness.”

Arthur groans internally. “Why is that?”

“Your condition may be distracting for you, but I believe he would still be a great help to you on the battlefield.”

“Help?” Arthur repeats, “How could he help? By getting killed? By making me watch him die for real?” He feels a bit mad, but he doesn’t want to cry, so he laughs instead. “Do you think I can’t handle myself without him there? Do you think a lifetime’s worth of training and an entire army of Knights will amount to nothing unless he’s by my side?”

“I never said that,“ Gaius protests, but Arthur cuts him off, hysteria creeping into his increasingly shrill voice.

“What do you think he’ll do? He doesn’t know how to properly swing a sword! The man looks away when I kill a boar, do you honestly think he would be capable of killing a man?” His ramblings have turned the heads of a few nearby Knights, but he pays them little mind, looking at the old man expectantly.

“Merlin is capable of much more than you give him credit for,” Gaius says quietly. “I’m only saying you should give some thought to allowing him out. If not to fight, then at least to help me care for the injured.”

Arthur shakes his head. “With the bond you two share, I’d have thought you would be glad that I’m keeping him safe. My decision is final.”

Gaius stares at him for a long moment. “Don’t let this curse of yours stop you from seeing things clearly,” he advises.

“I can see perfectly fine,” Arthur says defiantly. “Merlin must be kept safe until the battle is over, that’s all I’m trying to do.”

It takes several long seconds before Gaius responds. “Of course, my lord.” He gives a small bow and leaves before Arthur can say anything else.

“Right,” Arthur says out loud to himself. He spins on his heel and continues his walk around the courtyard, stepping with a bit more confidence than before. He spots Elyan and Percival conversing quietly, hands on the hilts of their swords, standing up straight and occasionally flickering their eyes around the scene, alert and on edge. Arthur feels a rush of gratitude towards the men he can trust to defend the city.

He makes his way over to them, hoping to discuss at least a little bit of tactics and strategy before the chaos begins. But before he reaches them, the sound of bells clang through the air. All the men jump to attention, drawing their swords as though of one mind. The voice of a guard calls from the watchtower:

“The enemy has been sighted! We are under attack!" Arthur and his men brace themselves for battle.

It doesn’t take long for chaos to ensue within the city. Everywhere there are people, citizens scrambling for safety and calling for their loved ones, dark-armored men roaring as they attack, Knights panting heavily as they furiously defend their kingdom. Torches blaze, barrels crash to the ground, their contents spilling about. The air is pierced with the cries of children and wounded men.

Arthur charges to the center of the courtyard, slicing his way through the sea of enemies. Camelot is outnumbered at least two to one, but he can’t stop believing in his Knights, not now. Adrenaline pumps through his veins, making for a somewhat adequate substitute for energy lost by lack of food and rest.

All around him bodies fall. He spins and jumps and ducks, dancing the dance of battle. A sword swings towards his throat, glinting in the pale moonlight. He shoots out a leg and it connects with the hard muscles of someone’s leg and down they go, allowing Arthur to send his sword across the attacker’s throat before swiftly moving on.

Bodies litter the ground. He treads on one in his haste to move, not bothering to look down and find out whether the fallen is friend or foe. He doesn’t have time for that now.

“Sire!” Arthur hears Leon’s shout from close by, and he stabs one man before seeking out his senior Knight. He spots him not far away, fiercely fending off two of Cenred’s men at once. Immediately Arthur is at his side, driving his sword through one of the offenders, distracting the other enough for Leon to finish him off.

“Thank you, sire,” Leon says breathlessly in a moment of stillness before the next wave of attackers come. “I might have died.”

“I can’t have you dying on me,” Arthur says, clapping a hand on his Knight’s shoulder. “You’re doing well, Leon.”

“The same cannot be said for all of us, I’m afraid,” Leon says grimly, and Arthur looks at him, inviting him to go on.

“Many of the enemy have died tonight, have they not?”

“Look around you,” Leon implores his King, and Arthur does so with an increasing sense of nausea. All around them are men in fierce battle, the shrieks and clangs of metal on metal crying out to mingle with the groans and shouts of the fighters. Arthur squints at the men, and suddenly realizes what Leon is talking about. Many Camelot Knights are on the ground, and Cenred’s men continue to invade the citadel, effectively outnumbering Camelot.

“Already we have lost half our men,” Leon informs him, “We can’t keep this up. We must retreat.”

“Where to?”

Leon’s answer is cut off by more of the enemy. Two swords come into view and Leon and Arthur block them with their own, metal ringing out as they come into contact with one another.

As night continues, so does the battle, feeling more and more futile to Arthur as he fights and kills. Cenred’s men flock to him easily as more of Camelot’s knights fall. He takes them all on, suddenly feeling exhausted, looking around at the dead. This battle is already lost, he thinks as he spars with a particularly skilled swordsman. The enemy will keep coming and killing until there is nobody left bearing the Camelot crest.

The battle rages on, and Arthur finds himself without a man to fight. He seizes the chance to look around himself and see how many of his men are living. His eyes track the bodies on the ground, enemy and comrades alike. Blood floods the ground, and countless eyes stare unseeingly at the terrible violence around them.

He scans the crowd and stops short until his eyes fall on one body unlike all the rest. A skinny man, clad not in armor, but in a familiar jacket and neckerchief, lying on his back with a sword wound gaping from his chest.

“No,” Arthur breathes, charging towards Merlin, and his voice rises to a roar. “NO!” He locked him up! Hadn’t he kept him in the tower to keep this from happening? Merlin shouldn’t be dead, he can’t be, not now. That tower had only one way out and that was through the door that Arthur locked with the only existing key. It isn’t possible...

He stumbles forward, so transfixed on the way Merlin’s glassy eyes reflect the burning torches that he nearly doesn’t notice the soldier throwing himself at the King from the side. Arthur blocks the attack just barely, knocking the man backwards and driving his sword through his gut. When he looks back at the spot where Merlin lay, he sees a different man bearing Cenred’s symbol. A sigh of relief breathes through Arthur, and he turns away.

Arthur tries to keep track of which of his Knights are still alive. More of his men are dead on the ground than upright and fighting. Leon is alive, and he periodically returns to Arthur’s side to shout a report of what is going on elsewhere in the city. At one point during the night he informs the king that Cenred has set fire to houses in the lower town, explaining the smoke that scorches Arthur’s nose and the bright orange flames leaping up into the sky. Now the courtyard is filled not only with fighters, but with civilians who have nowhere else to run.

He spots Percival and Elyan fighting side by side, working together to fend off countless waves of Cenred’s soldiers. Gwaine is fighting solo, driving his weapon through the chests of man after man with a determined scowl on his face.

Fear still buzzes through Arthur’s mind from seeing Merlin’s death again. Perhaps it was an omen of what is to come, that Camelot will fall no matter what. Perhaps that’s what all this has been leading up to. Arthur knows that Cenred has worked with Morgana before. It would not surprise him to learn that all this was all her doing.

With this thought the adrenaline fades away, replaced by exhaustion that stumbles his step and makes his strikes sloppy. Through the chaos, Arthur thinks he sees a familiar flash of dark hair. His gut clenches, but before he can follow, he finds himself surrounded by men on all sides. White-hot pain screams through him as a sword grazes his calf, and Arthur is forced to his knees, sword flying from his hand and clattering just out of reach.

He sways, somehow lacking the resolve to fight back. Thoughts fade in and out of his mind, from _sword_ to _fight_ to _Merlin_.

He feels the cold tip of a foreign blade press against his throat. He struggles for breath there on the ground, trying to find the will to get away, but it’s gone. With a sick feeling of shame, he closes his eyes and waits for the end.

It never comes. Instead, there is a loud boom and a flash of brilliant light, and suddenly the pressure of the sword is gone. Arthur waits for something to happen, but it never does. He tears his eyes open and sees his almost-killers lying on the ground around him, some dead, some still taking their last gasps of air. He sweeps his gaze around the rest of the courtyard. It seems most men have fallen save for the Camelot Knights, the rest twitching there on the stone. Two figures are struggling, not two feet away from him. It’s too dark to see anything but silhouettes, but he can make out the rigid outline of the man closest to him, the moonlight glinting off the sword protruding from his back. Arthur watches as the sword is wrenched back, the metal receding smoothly from the other’s flesh. There’s a thud in the air, more of a vibration than a sound. There’s a helpless grunt of pain and then a sigh, and both men fall to the ground, completely still.

Arthur grips at the pain in his calf. He’s losing blood quickly, black spots dancing at the edge of his vision. He lurches towards the bodies in front of him, one hand gripping his wound, the other reaching out. Vaguely he’s aware of his surviving Knights running about in confusion, the sudden quiet of the courtyard disconcerting. He feels hands pulling at him, voices telling him to rest, asking if he’s alright, but Arthur cannot respond. He sways, the dark spots getting larger and larger, before taking over his vision altogether and he passes out.

**

Arthur gives a small grunt of frustration as he fumbles with his buckles. It’s difficult to reach the ones behind his shoulders, but he’ll manage. Holding one arm awkwardly out to the side, he attempts to slide the leather strap home, only to have it slip for the fourth time that morning.

“This is pathetic. I’m embarrassed for you,” comes Merlin’s voice from where he stands, arms folded, leaning against the wall nearby. “Do you need help?”

“No,” Arthur huffs, throwing an annoyed glance at his servant. “I’m the King, I am perfectly capable of putting on my own armor.”

“I can see that,” Merlin smirks, as Arthur misses the buckle yet again. “Just get someone to help you, why don’t you?”

“This is something I can do on my own,” the King retorts, and with a yelp of victory manages to tug the leather in place. He raises an ‘I-told-you-so’ eyebrow at Merlin, who rolls his eyes as Arthur starts working on the other side.

“If you had someone helping you, you’d be out on the courtyard by now. You know, where you’re supposed to be.”

“The people can wait.” Arthur says, not looking at Merlin.

“This isn’t something they should have to wait for,” Merlin says quietly, the jesting tone suddenly gone from his voice. “You need to be a King right now, Arthur.”

“I fully intend on doing so, I don’t need you telling me that. Besides, aren’t you always telling me what a great King I’m destined to be?”

“I believe in your leadership, but this is ridiculous,” Merlin’s voice is full of reproach, and Arthur tries not to wince. “The people need you right now. You shouldn’t be keeping them waiting like this. Lots of them lost loved ones in the battle. You should know what they’re feeling.”

“I was close to many of the Knights. I’ll never forget them.”

“That’s not exactly what I meant,” Merlin says.

“The people can wait just a little longer. A few minutes won’t make a difference,” Arthur insists, still attempting to shove the leather strap into the buckle. Merlin’s response is cut off by the sound of the door opening. Arthur looks up to see Guinevere entering the royal chambers, and his heart twists at the sight of her. She is not carrying herself with the same kind of confidence that she normally does. Her eyes are swollen, and her bottom lip bruised from where she bit into it too much. Poor girl, Arthur thinks, the battle was hard on her.

“My lord,” She greets, her voice thick. “It’s time.”

“I’m aware of that, Guinevere,” Arthur tells her. “I’ll be out shortly.”

“Actually, I was being polite,” Gwen says apologetically. “It was time half an hour ago. The people are getting restless. The sooner you deliver your speech, the sooner we can put this tragedy behind us.”

Merlin gives Arthur a pointed look.

“I’ll be out as soon as I’m ready,” Arthur assures her. “I’m just struggling a bit with this armor.”

Gwen tuts, then strides over to where Arthur stands. She shoos his hands away from his shoulder, and he dutifully holds himself still as she gently but quickly finishes putting on his armor.

“I know it’s hard,” she says softly. “It’s hard for all of us. That’s why we need you.”

“I know,” Arthur says wearily.

“The battle was horrible,” Gwen continues as she grabs the King’s ceremonial cloak from where it is draped over the changing screen. “When it was over Elyan came to me, he was traumatized. I think all survivors feel the same.”

Arthur stares ahead, and Gwen doesn’t meet his eyes as she drapes the cloak around his shoulders and fastens the clasp in the front. “We lost many friends, but we did win the battle, and that should be counted as a victory.”

“She’s right, you know,” Merlin says, still leaning against the wall, watching with interest as Gwen finishes dressing the King.

“We all lost someone dear to us. But you can’t let that get in the way of your leadership,” she says, finally meeting Arthur’s eyes. “When your father fell ill he had you to run the kingdom in his stead. If you stop caring, there isn’t anyone to take your place.”

“I would never stop caring about this kingdom!” Arthur protests, indignant. Gwen sighs.

“I know that,” She says. “All I’m saying is that you need to be a leader.”

Arthur sighs. “You’re right. Thank you, Guinevere.”

She gives him a small smile. “Now come on, it’s time to speak to your people.”

She turns and leaves the room. Arthur starts to follow her, pausing to glance at Merlin, who is looking at him, eyebrows raised.

“Are you coming?” Arthur asks.

“I’m not so sure I should,” Merlin replies. “You might not want me distracting you.”

Arthur grimaces. “Locking you in that tower was just a precaution, I’m sorry, alright?”

Merlin throws his arms wide. “Look at what bloody good that did me!”

“It kept you safe,” Arthur insists, his voice as low and menacing as he can manage, but instead it comes out sounding hoarse and unconvincing. Merlin shakes his head.

“Come on Arthur, you know better than that.”

Arthur glares at him, and Merlin matches his stare. Finally Arthur blinks and pushes past him towards the door.

“I thought you would have wanted to attend the funeral, but I guess not. Fine, stay up here.”

“Arthur,” Merlin calls, but Arthur ignores him, fleeing the room and slamming the door closed behind him.

The air outside is heavy with grief. Sunlight strains against the thick cloud cover, but its attempts are in vain, made apparent by the thunder that rumbles loudly with the promise of a heavy storm. Probably for the best, Arthur muses. Perhaps the rain will wash away the stench of tragedy. People are packed in the courtyard, every person’s face solemn as the procession moves before them. In the center of the crowd on top of a wooden platform, crisp white bundles are placed side by side, each one emblazoned with the Camelot crest and covered with the dark red cloaks of their late owners. Their swords rest on top.

Amidst the crowd of mourning citizens, Arthur spots two familiar figures standing side by side. One is Gwen, her face stained with new tears, her lip trembling as she looks on. Beside her stands Gaius, looking for all the world as though he gained ten years in the last two days. His features are worn with grief, as he silently pats Gwen’s heaving shoulder.

Neither of them look up as Arthur takes his place at the head of the crowd. Sir Leon stands near the bodies, a torch in hand, ready to light them after the King’s speech. He nods grimly as Arthur meets his eyes.

Arthur twists where he stands, looking up at his chamber window. It is hanging open, and through it he can see Merlin, looking down at him.

Why is that window open? Arthur thinks frantically. He could fall to his death!

But Merlin stares down, his expression disapproving, as though he knows something obvious, and he is waiting for Arthur to catch on. He gives a sad shake of his head and vanishes from the window.

Arthur sighs and turns to address his people.

“People of Camelot. My friends, the recent time been terrible for all. Many of us lost loved ones in the battle. Today we gather to honor those fallen...”

*

Arthur sighs in exasperation, throwing his head back and shutting his eyes. The silence of the room is almost too much to bear, so he growls his frustration just to hear something other than the ringing in his ears. After a moment’s pause, he drags his head forward and stares at the paperwork spread out in front of him, willing answers to present themselves from the mess of documents.

Long columns of sums calculating the rations allowed to each citizen for the year, how much in taxes will need to be collected, how many are likely to starve this winter, etc. Arthur runs tired fingers through his hair, disgruntled. He wishes he had his Knights here to help him, but they’re all off in the lower town, helping the people who were made homeless when their houses were destroyed in the chaos of battle.

So many people had perished in that fight, innocent people who weren’t a part of it. Not only were many of the Knights killed, but many bystanders had been cruelly slaughtered as well, leaving Camelot in a state of grief, despite having successfully fought off Cenred and his army. Where there should have been victory was instead a sense of loss.

Now there is the matter of finding new homes for those displaced. There is also a need for more Knights, since more than half of them were killed by Cenred’s men. Unfortunately, there are not enough nobles to fill the position, so Arthur must consider revising the Knight’s code and allowing common men to become Knights. After all, Gwaine, Lancelot, and the rest had proven themselves worthy, had they not?

“This room is a mess,” Comes a voice, and Arthur looks over the back of his chair to see Merlin lounging casually near the window, casting a pointed gaze at the various items littering the floor, then back to Arthur. “You should get someone to clean it up.”

“All the servants are occupied with rebuilding the city,” Arthur tells him.

“Yes, why aren’t you telling me to go out there and help?” Merlin asks, a smile ghosting at the edges of his lips. Arthur hesitates, the answer just out of reach. Why _isn’t_ he telling Merlin to get a move on?

“I need you to stay here,” he says shakily, quickly returning his attention to the forms in front of him. “Can’t have you wandering around getting hurt, can we?”

“I’m hardly likely to get hurt,” Merlin remarks.

“You’re the most accident-prone idiot I’ve ever met,” Arthur mutters. “You aren’t leaving this room.”

He can practically hear Merlin’s pout, but he takes his servant’s silence as agreement. It makes sense, Arthur thinks to himself. The battle had been a close call. He can’t risk Merlin getting killed again.

His thoughts are interrupted by a knock. At Arthur’s call of “enter,” the doors open and Gaius the physician steps in.

“Sire,” he greets, accompanied with a small bow, something clasped in his hand.

“Gaius,” Arthur returns. “Can I help you with anything?”

“I came to give you this,” the old man says, extending his hand to offer a small vial of dark green liquid. Arthur looks at it, then up to meet the man’s tired eyes.

“What is this?” he asks, taking it.

“To help with your headache,” Gaius answers. “And your dreams. I thought you might need it.”

“Thank you, Gaius,” Arthur says tiredly, taking the vial and inspecting it mutely, swirling the potion around, tiny bubbles forming on the surface.

“How are my people coping?” He inquires.

“The people of Camelot are doing what they can to help one another. Some are offering their homes as temporary sanctuary for those who were displaced.” Gaius explains. “But there are still many homeless and in desperate need of aid.”

Arthur sighs. It pleases him to know that his subjects are kind-hearted, but helping them will be no easy task. Much of the treasury will be needed to rebuild what was destroyed, which means taxes must be raised, even though most people will be unable to pay, even less after the damage. Arthur stifles a groan and sets the potion down on the table atop of the many papers spread before him. He looks over at Gaius, whose features are downcast and lined with misery.

“How are you faring, Gaius?” Arthur asks, and the other man seems to take a moment to collect himself before answering.

“Everyone lost someone dear to them,” He responds. “And there are many people in need. I can’t let my loss get in the way of where I am needed. This is a difficult time for all.”

“Indeed,” Arthur says sympathetically. “It must be hard, to have so many people to see to. We’re lucky you’re such a skilled physician.” He attempts at a grin that goes unreturned. He lets his face fall once more.

“What about you, sire, amidst all this?” Gaius asks curiously.

“I’m coping,” Arthus warily replies. “The battle was a long and hard one, but we prevailed, that’s the important part.”

“Are you sure you’re alright? With Merlin?”

Arthur grimaces at the mention of his servant. “I’m still having nightmares,” he confesses, “But I’m not seeing him die anymore, so I’d call that an improvement.”

Gaius nods solemnly. “I can get you a sleeping potion,” He suggests, “much like I gave to Morgana.”

Arthur shakes his head. “It will pass soon,” he says, not quite sure he believes himself. “This is a burden a King must bear.”

Gaius nods once more. “If you need anything, you know where to find me, Sire.” With that, he exits the room, leaving Arthur to his documents.

There's a small pause where Arthur eyes the vial of potion before him. His head is pounding with numbers and the troubles of the kingdom. He thinks of all the people fallen, all the people suffering, and he feels the dull pang of regret. He let his curse distract him from saving his people, resulting in all this suffering. With a determined sniff he shuffles the papers around to read over them yet again to try and figure out a solution.

"How are you doing?" Arthur startles and jerks his head round to see Merlin leaning against the table, arms crossed and eyes narrowed, scrutinizing the King closely. Arthur clears his throat.

"Like I said to Gaius, it comes with the job. As King it is my duty to bear the burden so that my people don't have to." He plucks the vial from the table and uncorks it, throwing his head back and swallowing it all on one single gulp.

"The people are suffering greatly. Are you sure this is something you can handle?"

"I'll be fine, Merlin," Arthur sighs, setting the empty glass aside and returning to the papers. "I've been raised to deal with such things since birth. I'll get by."

Merlin says nothing. Arthur immerses himself in his work, calculating and recalculating rations and taxes and casualties. Neither man says anything, and soon the room is silent but for the sound of Arthur's quill scratching on the parchment.

*

Arthur jerks awake at the sounds of knock on his door. He jumps to attention, lifting his head from where it was resting, slumped over on the table. A document follows his ascent, and he bids the visitor to enter as he pries it from his cheek.

The door opens and in walks Guinevere, looking withdrawn, her face hardened from many nights helping Gaius with the needy. She grips a dinner tray with steady hands as she walks in and nudges the door closed with her hip.

"Guinevere!" Arthur says, squinting at her barely illuminated form. The windows are black with night, and nobody's been in to light the candles in his chambers. He shivers slightly from the cold, rubbing his hands up and down his arms.

"Hello Arthur," Gwen says with a soft smile. "I brought you dinner." She holds up the tray, laden with a plate piled high with food.

"Thank you, that was very kind," Arthur says, as Gwen sets the tray down in front of him. "I must have fallen asleep," he yawns. "What time is it?"

"Late," Is her answer. Arthur rubs sleep from his eyes as Gwen moves around the room to light the candles. "I didn't know whether someone had brought you anything to eat, but I guess not."

Arthur shakes his head, lifting his fork and picking at the food on the plate.

"Have you found a new servant yet?" Gwen asks casually from the candle stand by the window, the room now filled with dull, flickering light.

"Pardon?" Arthur asks, looking up to meet her gaze, guarded and apprehensive. She looks at him for a moment, her eyes brimming with fresh tears, bottom lip caught between her teeth. She seems to take his silence for trouble, because her eyes widen comically and she hurriedly tumbles into an apology.

"Oh no, I didn't mean- I mean I know it's hard, maybe you don't want a new one just yet, I get that. I know it's hard losing such a close friend, it would probably be weird to have someone else--"

"Gwen!" Arthur interrupts her with a small smile, and she falls silent, closing her jaw abruptly. "It's fine, you don't need to babble like that. You didn't offend me."

She relaxes visibly, though unease and what looks like grief still linger in her eyes. She quickly turns to finish lighting the last of the candles in silence.

"If that'll be all then, Sire," She says, looking at Arthur apprehensively. Arthur looks up from his many papers to give her a small smile, his dinner only slightly picked at off to the side.

"That's fine, thank you, Guinevere," He says. Gwen dips into a curtsy before starting out of the chambers, before she's halted by Arthur calling out to her.

"Yes?" She asks, looking back at him.

"Tomorrow, I hope it wouldn't be too much trouble to ask for a second plate?" He grins at her, and she fixes him with an odd look.

"I suppose I could," She says, and Arthur nods his thanks, bowing his head over the table once more.

"I don't mean to intrude," Gwen says, causing Arthur to look back up at her, "But who is the extra plate of food for?"

Arthur frowns. "Merlin, of course." His answering tone forms more of a question. Shouldn’t that be obvious?

A slight crease forms in between Gwen's eyebrows as her expression turns curious. "Merlin?"

"I'm pretty sure he'd like to eat too," Arthur explains. "In his current state, I'd rather not send him down to the kitchens himself. He might get scared of the dark." Nearby, Merlin gives a soft snort. Arthur almost said he's too scared to let Merlin out of his sight, but the thought of Gwen becoming suspicious of his curse gives Arthur a bad feeling. Not that he doesn't trust her to keep the secret, but all the same, it is better to keep some things internalized.

"Arthur," Gwen says, taking a slow step towards the King and reaching out a hand, though she seems unsure whether it is to comfort him or defend herself. "Why would Merlin need a plate of food? He isn't here."

Arthur huffs. "Of course he's here," he insists, gesturing to the chair he had last seen Merlin occupy, but he falters when he finds the seat empty. "Odd," He frowns, "He was just sitting there."

Gwen now looks properly scared, her eyes wide and tearful, her lips parting with horror. "No, he wasn't," she says shakily. "He couldn't have been."

"Well I was just talking to him," Arthur replies, turning in his seat to scan the room, but his servant is mysteriously absent.

"You can't have been!" Gwen says, her voice shaking more with every word. "He's dead!"

Arthur's head snaps back around at her words. "What?"

"He...Merlin, he's dead," Gwen repeats. "You of all people should know that."

Arthur gapes at her, disbelief creeping into his mind. That's impossible, it can't be...

"Don't tell me the curse has gotten to you, too," He says faintly.

Gwen knits her eyebrows in confusion, tears streaming freely down her cheeks.

"Guinevere, listen to me," Arthur says, rising hastily from his seat and rounding the table to grip her by the arms. "Merlin is not dead, not really," He states, looking her squarely in the eye. He lowers his voice to a whisper, praying Merlin won't be able to hear. "There's a curse, or a spell, causing you to hallucinate. I know, it got me for a while too. It's scary, at first, but I swear to you it will pass."

"What are you..." Gwen starts, then trails off at the look in Arthur's eyes.

"I promise you, Merlin is fine," Arthur reassures her. "I'll keep him safe. As long as he stays here in this room he'll be safe."

Gwen only continues to gape at the King, true terror in her expression. Arthur rubs his thumbs soothingly along her arms.

"Oh, Arthur..." She shakes her head in disbelief, stepping out of the King's grasp and backing towards the door.

"I...I'm sorry," She gasps, and with one final sob, she hurriedly ducks from the chambers, the doors shutting behind her with a loud thud.

"What was that all about?" Merlin says from somewhere over Arthur's shoulder.

"It must be spreading..." Arthur murmurs, pondering the door where Gwen disappeared.

"Sorry?" Merlin says, coming into Arthur's line of view. Arthur breathes a sigh of relief; Merlin hadn't heard Arthur explaining things to Gwen.

"Nothing," Arthur says more clearly, shaking his head slightly and settling back into his chair.

"Here," He says, offering one of his chicken legs to his servant. "You need to eat."

Merlin grins but shakes his head.

"Don't get used to eating off of my plate." Arthur reminds him, picking up a roll and tearing off a chunk with his teeth.

"Of course not," Merlin says solemnly, “But I wouldn’t want to keep such food from the King, who needs it more than I, after all.” Their eyes meet and Merlin laughs.

"What?" Arthur asks, not sure he quite likes what that look could mean.

"Nothing," Merlin says, chuckling. "It was just touching, is all. How much you care for me."

Arthur scowls. "I only said it to comfort Guinevere," he mumbles. "Don't get so full of yourself."

"Whatever you say, sire!"

*

_Merlin is lying on the ground, skin deathly pale, eyes the color of midnight. Blood so dark it’s nearly black pours from his mouth in a never-ending stream, gagging his final cries. Arthur reaches out to him, unsure what he can do to help but desperate to do something. But he is bound by invisible chains wound around his wrists, circling his torso and pinning his legs together, rendering him helpless. The more he thrashes the tighter he is held, and soon he is gasping for breath, feeling his brittle ribs snap like twigs beneath the bindings._

_Merlin’s body twitches before he suddenly sits up, roaring in complete agony, and the sound hurts Arthur far more than the chains ever could. Merlin’s scream sears his ears, burning his brain as Merlin claws at the air, turning his blackened eyes to Arthur, his screams forming words heard in Arthur’s mind rather than his ears:_

_“Arthur! Arthur please! You have to help me, it hurts, it_ hurts _, make it stop, just make it stop! Arthur! ARTHUR!”_

The rumble of thunder rips Arthur from his sleep, and with a cry of terror he wakes, sitting ramrod straight in his bed, sheets tangled tight around his body. Lightning flashes as he takes in his surroundings, illuminating the empty chambers with brilliant white light.

“Merlin!” Arthur gasps, breathing heavily, eyes darting wildly around the room. The silent room yields no answer, at first.

“Merlin!” He screams again.

“Arthur?” There is Merlin’s voice, soft and soothing, from somewhere in the darkness. “It’s alright, it was just a dream. Go back to sleep, everything’s fine.”

Arthur scans the room, his eyes sliding over to the window. There are no stars tonight, hidden by the clouds and the torrential autumn rain pounding at the glass. The room is completely black.

There’s another flash of lighting, and once more the room goes white. Still Arthur does not see Merlin. As the world plunges back into darkness, he can hear Merlin’s voice, somewhere close to him, but where exactly he can not identify.

“Sleep, Arthur,” Merlin whispers. “It’s alright. Everything will be alright.”

Slowly Arthur falls back onto the pillows, his breathing becoming even once more. Merlin continues to murmur soothing words of comfort, and soon Arthur finds himself drifting back into sleep.

**  


“Enter!” Arthur calls when he hears the knock, looking up from his documents. He’s lost track of how long he’s been engrossed in his work.

The door opens and Sir Leon enters, looking uncertain.

“My Lord,” He says with a slight inclination of his head. Arthur doesn’t miss the way Leon’s gaze lingers on the piles of papers, reminiscent of that day he found a crazed Arthur in the middle of his ransacked room. He clears his throat and tries again. “My lord, I’m sure you’re very busy, but I’d like a word.”

Arthur glances down at the table, strewn with so many papers that the wood can hardly be seen. More documents litter the floor, fluttering around the legs of the table. Arthur gestures for Leon to proceed. It’s not like he’s getting anywhere anyway.

“Thank you, sire,” Leon says. “I’m sure you’re aware of how long it’s been since the battle against Cenred, and you know how much damage was done to the kingdom.”

“Of course,” Arthur replies, “It has occupied my every thought.” Well, not every thought. Arthur’s eyes flicker to Merlin’s shadow on the floor.

“Yes, I know you’re working very hard trying to get Camelot back in order.” Again Leon glances at the messy piles of papers. “I know you’re busy and I’ve tried to stall, but I’m afraid this cannot wait any longer. There are people who require an audience with you. There are numerous housing problems, as well as looting. Your people are getting uneasy. They need their King to settle their disputes, sire.”

Arthur nods. “I know that I am required at council,” He concedes, “I will attend to them as soon as I can. But I’m afraid these problems must be solved as quickly as possible. As soon as I’m finished with them I will see to the citizens.”

“What are these problems, if I may ask?” Leon wonders.

“Food supply for the winter,” Arthur explains. “Taxes, things like that. Urgent, you see.”

Leon hesitates, a shadow of frustration passing over his features. “Your majesty, there are cases of death threats,” he informs the King. “Surely you can spare a day to attend court?”

Arthur sighs. “I’m sorry Leon, I can’t.”

The Knight draws himself up to his full height, clearly doing his best to maintain a level of respect despite his irritation.

“It’s been two weeks. The people need their King.”

Arthur’s brow wrinkles. Two weeks? “I’m sorry, but I must attend to these.”

Leon opens his mouth to protest, but Arthur interrupts him. “I trust you can oversee Knight’s training in my absence?” Leon nods. “And perhaps you can offer advice to the more pressing cases,” Arthur suggests.

Leon’s jaw falls half open at that, manners temporarily forgotten. “Sire, I couldn’t possibly--”

“You’ll have my whole team of advisors with you,” Arthur assures him. “I trust you, Leon.”

Leon wavers for a moment, seemingly on the verge to protest further, but finally he gives a respectful bow of his head. “Thank you, sire.”

Arthur smiles as his senior Knight exits the room.

“He seems upset,” Merlin comments lightly, swiping a pile of papers from a chair to the floor before sitting down.

“How do you mean?” Arthur asks, dipping his quill into ink. Some of it splatters over the edge and onto the table and his hands.

Merlin shrugs one shoulder, tapping his fingers on the table in front of him. “He just looked stressed. It can’t be easy doing all of this.”

“It’s hard, yes,” Arthur agrees.

The room is quiet for a moment, the only sounds being the scratching of Arthur’s quill and the erratic tapping of Merlin’s fingernails.

Arthur says, “Will you stop that?” at the same time that Merlin blurts out “Why didn’t you go to court?”

“I’m not leaving until this is solved,” Arthur insists, refusing to look Merlin in the eye.

“What complete horse dung!” Merlin scoffs. “Is this really the best excuse you can come up with? Taxes? You’re avoiding something. You’re running away from whatever it is like a frightened little girl.”

“I am not running away,” Arthur says. “This is for your sake.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

It means I don’t want you getting hurt, Arthur thinks. I don’t want you in any more trouble, but I also can’t bear the thought of letting you out of my sight, and if the only solution is to remain here, then so be it.

“I don’t have to explain myself to you, Merlin, I’m the King. Now shut up.”

“But--”

 _“Merlin_.” Arthur fixes Merlin with a hard glare, doing his best to convey his desperation. Does he really need to give Merlin the details? Why can’t he just understand that these actions are necessary? Why question it?

Because it’s Merlin, and Merlin always knows when something is off.

Merlin falls silent, matching Arthur’s glare with one of his own. With a frustrated sniff he roughly pushes himself away from the table and marches away, out of Arthur’s sight. Guilt briefly flutters in the pit of his stomach, but he bats the feeling away, instead turning his attention to the documents before him. They really are very important.

*

The boy who scurries into Arthur’s chambers is a small, frightened thing, bony and short and just about the age Merlin was when they first met, Arthur observes. He stands awkwardly in front of the closed door, shifting his weight from his right foot to his left and back again, watching the King with apprehensive eyes, as if he’s afraid the man might lash out.

“This doesn’t bode well,” Merlin murmurs from his place leaning against the wall by the fireplace. Arthur shoots him a quick look, telepathically telling Merlin to _behave!_

“Hello,” Arthur says briskly, directing a gentle smile at the boy to show that he is not something to be scared of. “What’s your name?”

“B-Barney, sir,” The boy stammers, his voice hardly above a whisper.

“Well, Barney, there’s no need to be so intimidated,” Arthur says pleasantly. “You don't have to be nervous just because I’m the King. Unless you’re here to kill me.” He meant it as a joke, but the color drains from Barney’s face at the suggestion. Merlin snorts.

“I’m not here to kill you!” Barney assures, and Arthur can’t help but chuckle at the boy’s distraught face.

“I know, I know,” He says, “So why are you here?”

“I was sent to clean your chambers,” Barney says, his eyes sweeping over the room, papers strewn about so thickly that the floor can barely be seen. “They said you were in need of a servant.”

“I suppose this place could do with a bit of a cleaning,” Arthur muses, looking around himself.

“This place should have been cleaned a long time ago, you lazy arse,” Merlin comments, eliciting a “shut up” from Arthur and a frightened twitch from Barney.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to suggest the chambers were messy! I just, Sir Leon asked me to come here, sire, I truly did not mean to insult my King--”

“Barney!” Arthur interrupts, suddenly feeling reminded of Gwen. “It’s alright, I’m not angry with you, he's just being an annoying sod.” He jerks his head in Merlin’s direction, and Barney looks at the fireplace.

“Right then, sir, I’ll just, um.”

Merlin raises his eyebrows at Arthur, who shrugs. “He’s not a very coherent servant, is he?”

“Be quiet, Merlin, he’s smarter than you.”

Barney’s eyes widen, looking positively terrified, sending quick glances between the King and the fireplace.

“I’ll just get started then,” He says quickly and a bit louder than necessary, and he immediately gets to his knees to gather the papers off the floor, staring at his hands as if his work is the most interesting thing in the world. Arthur returns to his own work, letting the frightened boy gather the extra papers.

“Sire,” Barney says timidly, causing Arthur to look up from a particularly stubborn list of sums. “I don’t mean to interrupt you, sire, but these sums...”

“What about them?” Barney is staring between the two stacks of papers he holds and those still spread about the floor.

“They’re all the same,” He says. “Each page is exactly the same.”

“What do you mean?” Arthur asks, and Barney straightens up, still gazing calculatingly at the papers.

“Are these balancing grain rations?”

“Some of these papers are, yes.”

“Look.” The serving boy places the papers on top of the ones already on the table. “This column and this column, you’ve done the same arithmetic over again, here too, and here.” He gestures to each paper in turn, pointing to Arthur’s tidy scrawl of numbers. “All of these pages are exactly the same, with the same results.”

He tears his gaze away from the numbers and suddenly seems to remember to whom he is speaking. “Forgive me for questioning your judgment, sire, but why would you do the same sums over and over again?”

“Double-checking,” Arthur says matter-of-factly. “It’s very important business, Barney, I must be certain I have the numbers correct.”

“Of course, but surely two or three times is enough?” Barney’s voice grows shakier and shakier as he questions his King, each phrase of doubt causing him to look more frightened.

“One can never be too sure,” the King says confidently, looking down to examine the papers nonetheless. The papers presented to him are indeed identical, the same columns of numbers repeated page after page after page. A crease forms between his eyebrows. Surely this is acceptable work?

“Are you defending yourself against a lowly servant?” Merlin asks, clearly amused. Arthur ignores him.

“Don’t you think this is enough?” Barney asks, seemingly too surprised to add a timid ‘sire’ to the end of the question.

“Perhaps,” Arthur murmurs. “It’s all very complicated.”

“I’m sure,” Barney says, “But winter is almost upon us. Shouldn’t you have reached a conclusion by now?”

“All in due time, Barney. I assure you this will all be sorted by the first snow.”

“But that will be soon,” Barney says, “Surely a solution should have been met? In years past this hasn’t presented such a problem...”

“You’re young, but as you age you’ll find that these things do happen. This year is different, what with the recent battle. There are many more factors to consider that are making things much more difficult. But there’s nothing to worry about.”

“Of course, sire.” Barney concedes, ducking his head and returning to his task, dropping the matter. Arthur blows a slightly irritated breath from his nose and returns to balancing grain rations.

“I thought I was the only servant allowed to address you like that,” Merlin comments.

“Like what?”

“You’ve never let anyone else question you, except maybe Gwen. And Gaius,” Merlin adds as an afterthought.

“I’ve always been open to other’s council,” Arthur defends. “Other opinions are what make a kingdom strong. What good is a King who doesn’t listen to his people?”

“You never listen to me.”

“That’s because you’re an idiot and if I listened to you Camelot would have fallen as soon as I took the crown.”

“Done sire!” Barney shouts, interrupting the banter. He jumps up and barely has time for a hurried half-bow, carefully avoiding the King’s eye, before scurrying from the room, his arms overflowing with papers.

“What was wrong with him?” Merlin wonders at the closed door.

“Probably intimidated. I am his King, you know,” Arthur muses. “He needn’t have been so worried. He’s a nice lad and he did the job.” He gestures to the now paper-free floor. Merlin nods in agreement.

“At least you didn’t hit him, he probably would have fainted.”

Arthur chuckles. “Yes, you’re probably right about that.”

*

Some days later, Arthur is taking a moment away from his work, looking out over his kingdom, a goblet of wine cradled in his hand. His back is to the cold chambers, and he shivers. There are no candles lit and no fire blazing. In years past Merlin would have had the fire roaring and the room would be cozy and pleasant, but now the room is cold and grey, chilled by an early winter draft. He supposes he should get Barney in here soon, to light fires and candles, and it wouldn’t hurt to have a few extra blankets too, Arthur supposes, although they would do little to ward off the inexplicable chill that has been present in Arthur ever since the battle.

Arthur squirms as he recalls that night. It has been weeks, so why does remembering it still frighten him so? Many lives were lost, good men and brave Knights. But those Knights died valiantly, bravely, and with honor, so Arthur has no reason to be so affected by their deaths.

Besides, he has seen men die before. In his arms, he has comforted men as their life bled from their wounds, making them small promises. Yes, you will be happy in Avalon. Yes, I will tell your wife you love her. Yes, your children will be comfortable. Yes, yes, yes. He did all he could to make their last moments bearable. It is he who has to live with the aftermath.

These are burdens he must bear as King, and he has no business being so distraught. Besides, he thinks as he takes a sip of his wine, perhaps that isn’t why he is so disturbed.

That night was horrible, of course, but it was nothing compared to the terror he experienced in the days preceding it. Merlin’s repeated death still haunts Arthur’s dreams, hovering just at the edge of his consciousness during the day, threatening to break him if he were ever to face it. Images still bombard him every time he closes his eyes: Merlin hanging from the ceiling, Merlin falling from the roof, Merlin mutilated by a dog...the list goes on and on.

But Merlin has not died since that night. Why, then, do the memories of that battle still cause his skin to crawl? When he recalls that dark death-filled night he is filled with unease, more so than he would any other battle. He feels as though he is missing something, deep down in his gut, a crucial bit of evidence staring him in the face, but as soon as he thinks of it it slips away, just out of his reach. If it makes him this uncomfortable, he isn’t sure he wants to know what it is.

Since the battle Merlin has stopped dying, and Arthur wonders at it. In all the deaths that occurred that night, perhaps the sorcerer responsible for this curse fell as well. One of the Knights? One of the peasants? Arthur can’t bring himself to point an accusing finger at any of his men. They swore an oath, none of them would ever commit such an act against their King.

The other more likely possibility is Morgana, wherever she is. Arthur has no idea just how much power his sister has, but there is no doubt that if she wanted to cast such a spell, she would find the means to do it. She is a High Priestess, after all, and magic corrupts the minds of those who wield it. Perhaps she was nearby, that day in the woods when Arthur first heard Merlin’s screams, being torn apart by some nonexistent beast.

No matter what she did, something must have happened during the battle against Cenred to alter the spell. Not lift it completely, otherwise the nightmares would stop and Arthur would be free once more. If only the burden were lifted Arthur would no longer be afraid to let Merlin out of his sight, because loathe though he is to admit it, he is scared. He is terrified of losing Merlin yet again, after everything he’s been through. His fear could cause some changes in the way his court is run, but that is the price he must pay. The people are still happy, and so things must continue the way they are.

The door opens softly, bringing Arthur out of his thoughts. Gaius enters the chambers and the air turns solemn. Arthur nods at him wordlessly before turning back to the window. They have known each other long enough that he doesn’t need to berate the physician for entering unannounced.

“Sire,” Gaius moves towards him, his tone grim. “How have you been feeling?”

“I’ve been well,” Arthur says, and nothing more.

“Leon tells me you’ve been working hard,” Gaius says, meeting Arthur at the window and staring out. The city is blanketed underneath a white sky, darkening as evening falls.

“I have been,” Arthur replies. “Troubling matters, you know.”

“More troubling than those of court?” Gaius says reproachfully. Arthur frowns.

“I told Leon he could handle court as long as I am otherwise busy.”.

“Leon is a very good Knight,” Gaius says, finally turning to look at Arthur. “But Camelot needs a King, not a Knight, and Leon is not a King.”

“You’re talking as though I’ve died, Gaius,” Arthur says. “Camelot’s King is still here.”

Gaius shakes his head. “I’m not so sure about that, sire. You haven’t left these chambers in months--”

“-- dealing with matters of state!”

“And what progress have you made?” Gaius’ eyebrow lifts in disapproval. “I’m afraid the time has come for me to protest your seclusion, Your Highness. I say this as your friend. Camelot is strong, but without you the kingdom will fall.”

Arthur sighs. “I can’t go out there. Not yet.”

“Why not?”

Arthur doesn’t answer.

“Sire?”

Gaius sighs. “This is about Merlin, isn’t it?”

Arthur jerks his head around to meet the gaze of the physician, Gaius’ statement catching him off guard. Gaius nods as if this is all the confirmation he needs.

“Arthur, it is time you put it all behind you. It was months ago that Merlin died. You cannot continue to let his death get in the way of your leadership.”

A half strangled laugh bubbles up from somewhere within Arthur. “First Guinevere, now you too,” He says.

“What do you mean?”

“Gwen said the same thing about him,” Arthur informs him. “She said that Merlin died on the battlefield.”

“She was right, he did,” Gaius says. “He was stabbed saving you, Sir Gwaine tells me he saw the whole thing. His body was collected the next morning and buried separately from the rest.”

Arthur shakes his head. “It was a hallucination, it must have been. It may have looked like he was dead, but he wasn’t. I made sure to keep him safe. I locked him in the high tower, the one rarely used, near the rear of the castle. He couldn’t have been further from danger there.”

Gaius is silent for a moment. “Sire, did you ever go and let him out of the tower?”

“What?”

“When the battle was over, did you go and let him out?”

Arthur is quiet for a moment, mulling through the memories. “To be honest, Gaius, that night is a bit of a blur. I do not wish dwell too much on it.”

“Are you saying you do not remember or that you do not want to remember?”

“I’m saying Merlin is safe, alive, and well,” Arthur insists.

“How do you know that?” Gaius asks, no longer trying to holding back is skepticism.

“Because he’s here, obviously. He’s been keeping me company while I do my work.”

This piece of news seems to render Gaius speechless. “You...you’ve been seeing him.”

“Of course I have. I’m telling you, he isn’t dead.”

All color drains from Gaius’ face. “It can’t be. That isn’t possible. Merlin is dead. Is that...that’s why you aren’t leaving your chambers?”

“The best way to keep him safe is to keep him near me, and this is the safest room in the castle.”

“Arthur, this is no way to run a kingdom,” Gaius says. “We have all suffered losses. You cannot let this impair your judgment. It isn’t right.”

“I’m still working!”

“When your father lost Ygraine he continued to rule. He was devastated by her death, but he did not let his grief get in the way of what was important. I suggest you do the same.”

Arthur considers him. “I’m sorry Gaius, you’ve got this wrong.”

The physician sighs in defeat. “I’m going to look through my books. Hopefully that will bring you to your senses.”

A spark of irritation flares in Arthur’s belly. “You can’t talk to your King like that!” He snaps.

“I mean it with the utmost respect, sire.” Gaius says with a bow. “I will return shortly.”

With that Gaius turns and leaves the chambers. Arthur watches him go, noticing the heavy set of his shoulders, as if the old man is carrying the burden of the sky. Arthur shakes his head sadly. This curse, this terrible curse, is spreading to those most dear to Merlin. Why is Arthur the only one who knows that?

He glances around himself. Where is Merlin anyway? As soon as the thought enters Arthur’s mind, Merlin materializes on the other side of him.

“Where were you just now? Why didn’t you speak to Gaius?”

Merlin shrugs but says nothing. Arthur huffs in irritation.

“This would be resolved a lot quicker if you just stuck around. When Gaius comes back don’t hide, alright?”

“Fine,” Merlin agrees lightly.

When Gaius reappears, he is not armed with books like Arthur expected he would be. Instead he only wears an aged expression, and his tone is grim when he speaks.

“The Merlin you have been seeing is a hallucination,” Gaius says abruptly, without prelude or fanfare. Arthur scoffs.

“That’s impossible. The curse made me see him dead, not alive. Look at him!” Arthur forcefully gestures to his side where Merlin is standing as proof. Gaius looks to where Arthur is pointing and raises an eyebrow.

“There’s nobody there,” He says simply.

“What are you talking about, of course he is!” Looking around he looks at Merlin, who simply gives a helpless shrug. “How can you not see him? He’s right there!”

“No, he isn’t,” Gaius says gently.

“What, are you blind--”

“He isn’t there!” Gaius repeats forcefully. “I’m going to tell you this again, sire. Merlin is dead.” He says the words slowly and clearly, as though he is speaking to a stubborn child. “He was killed on the battlefield by Cenred’s men right before the fight ended. He was one of the last to fall.”

“That’s impossible. I locked him away,” Arthur insists.

“What, in a tower? A locked door couldn’t hold Merlin if he was determined enough to escape. You were going off into battle, there was no way he would have sat there and let it happen.”

“I was doing perfectly fine.”

“You would have died that night if it weren’t for him escaping,” Gaius says calmly. “Camelot would have fallen.”

Now it’s Arthur’s turn to scoff. “Are you saying Merlin saved us all?” He turns to look incredulously at his servant, who is curiously peering at Gaius.

“It was he who saved Camelot that night, and it was he who sent Cenred’s men away. We owe him our victory.”

“Merlin isn’t a killer. He was up in the tower the whole time, I know because I locked him there myself and I had the only key--”

“Merlin got out using magic, you idiot!” Gaius shouts, displaying no shame in his name-calling.

A strained silence stretches out between them, in which Gaius looks at Arthur with apprehension, and Arthur looks between the physician and Merlin disbelievingly.

Something stirs in Arthur’s brain. A memory, or rather, a series of memories rise to the surface of his consciousness. Memories of attacks, of convenient escapes that should have been impossible, excuses and explanations Merlin gave that never quite added up. The way Merlin’s face closed up whenever magic was mentioned, how he never met Arthur’s eye whenever the subject arose.

But Merlin doesn’t have magic, that would be ridiculous. He’s an idiot, but he’s not stupid enough to use magic right in the heart of Camelot. Merlin would have told him. He would have said something, not just stood by...it doesn’t make sense.

“That can’t be right,” Arthur says, turning to Merlin. “Is it?”

Merlin is studying the floor intently, his eyes hidden.

“Merlin, you’re far too much of an idiot to be using magic, right?”

Merlin brings up a hand to tug at his neckerchief, finally raising his eyes and looking at his King, looking visibly uncomfortable.

“I have many talents that you’re unaware of, sire.”

Something cold forms in the pit of Arthur’s stomach, feeling as though he’s been punched, and suddenly he can’t bring himself to look at his servant. Instead he turns back to Gaius.

“Merlin has magic,” He says quietly. Gaius nods in confirmation. “Was it he who cast the enchantment on me?”

“No!” Gaius says quickly. “No, Merlin would never do such a thing. He lived for you, Arthur, he would never have do anything to bring you harm.”

Arthur’s breathing comes to him quickly, too quickly, and there are spots dancing at the edge of his vision, causing him to sway, feeling as though he will cry or be sick or both.

“Merlin...”

“...Died saving you.”

“That’s not possible. He’s here, he’s right here! Are you suggesting that I’m seeing Merlin’s ghost?”

“I don’t think so sire, no.”

Arthur blinks to look Gaius in the eye, confusion written all over his face.

“If not his ghost then what?”

The physician takes a deep breath. “What you are seeing is a figment of your imagination that is probably a side effect of the curse. When Merlin was alive you kept seeing him die, and you had to remind yourself constantly that it wasn’t real. When he really did die, it is my belief that you refused to accept it. Instead your mind conjured up this vision of Merlin.”

“What you’re saying is impossible.” Arthur manages to choke out.

“The Merlin you’ve been speaking to is a projection of your own subconscious,” Gaius continues. “There’s nothing Merlin about him. When you talk to him you’re only talking to yourself.”

“It can’t be,” Arthur cries. “I argue with him! How can I disagree with my own self?”

“Anything he says is something you already know, whether you acknowledge it consciously or not,” Gaius argues. “You say Merlin is standing next to you?”

“Yes!” Arthur states, turning his head to confirm to himself that yes, Merlin is there, his brow wrinkled as he looked at some invisible point in the air, looking calculating and confused, trying hard to work something out in his mind.

“What did Merlin say when I mentioned magic?” Gaius prompts him.

“He said-- He said he has many talents that I’ve never noticed before.”

“But you have noticed them before,” Gaius says. “Out of the corner of your eye you’ve seen him wield magic, and for whatever reason you refused to acknowledge it. Perhaps you did not want to have to face executing your best friend. Perhaps whenever you saw it you were too distracted by trying to escape mortal peril and you never consciously confronted it. But in the back of your mind, somewhere, you’ve known for a while, Arthur.”

At Gaius’ words something seems to click in Merlin’s mind, for his eyes widen and he gasps, his posture immediately straightening as he looks wild-eyed to Arthur.

“He’s telling the truth. I have magic.”

Arthur can feel himself trembling, knees threatening to buckle underneath the weight of this news. He wants to deny Gaius’ words, but there’s a tiny voice in the back of his mind telling him that maybe, just maybe there’s some truth to what is being said.

“Get out,” He whispers, his voice so hoarse he can barely form the words.

“Sire?”

He swallows, wetting his throat and repeating, “Get out! Get out of my sight!”

“I don’t think that would be wise--”

“GET OUT!” Arthur roars, his voice trembling, but he doesn’t care. “What do you know, old man? Has age made your brain ill? Has the curse spread to you too? You don’t know what you’re saying! You’re babbling!”

“Sire!” Gaius says in alarm, “You cannot continue like this! You have to accept Merlin’s death, otherwise Camelot will be without at King and she will fall!”

“Do you wish to break my heart?” Arthur demands, “Are you so determined to cast grief upon me?”

“I am telling you this because I care about you, Arthur!” Gaius says, his voice rising to match the King’s. “I have been looking after you ever since you were a boy, you mean a great deal to me, not just as a King but as a friend! You know I would never wish unhappiness on you, not unless I think it would help you.”

“And yet here you are, spewing nonsense, babbling like a crazy old man! If you don’t stop this I will have you thrown in the dungeons! I’ll remove your title as court physician, I’ll even have you arrested for daring to doubt the sanity of your King!”

Arthur sees Gaius’ slap before he feels it, barely having time to register the sharp sting on his cheek that sends him stumbling backwards, wildly gripping the wall to keep himself from crashing to the floor. He brings a hand to cradle his burning face, glaring at Gaius in disbelief, too stunned to react to the fact that he, the King, has just been struck.

“I cared about Merlin too!” Gaius cries. “He was the closest thing to family I have ever had, I would have given anything for him! Losing him hurt me just as much as it hurt you. But I mourned his death and moved on. You are not letting your grief pass. If you let it go on you will wither away into nothing, hiding up here in your chambers day after day until Camelot crumbles around you. Everything you’ve worked for, everything your father worked for, it will all be reduced to nothing. Is that what you want?”

Arthur gazes at Gaius, hands braced against the wall, shock still crashing over him in great waves threatening to break him. Slowly he slides his gaze over to see Merlin staring at him. But the man seems different now. His edges are less sharp, the details somewhat less focused than before. He says nothing, simply looking wide-eyed at his King.

“Leave me,” Arthur murmurs, not taking his eyes off of Merlin.

“Sire...”

“I said, leave me.”

After a beat of silence, Gaius says, “I will. But I beg you to think about what I’ve told you tonight.”

Arthur is so busy staring at Merlin that he doesn’t register when Gaius leaves.

Slowly, carefully, Arthur straightens back up from where he was frozen against the wall of his chambers. He stiffens his shoulders, keeping his hands in fists to stop their shaking.

He stares at Merlin, and Merlin stares back. Evening has fallen and in the semi-darkness it’s hard to make out the details in Merlin’s face. Now that Arthur looks at him, really looks, he can tell that there’s something off about him, something definitely not-quite-there that Arthur really can’t describe.

“Tell me it isn’t true,” Arthur whispers. “Tell me you are still alive, that this is some horrible dream.”

Merlin looks at Arthur, a deep, true sadness dwelling in his eyes as he gives a minute shake of his head.

“I don’t know,” He says quietly.

“Damn it, Merlin,” Arthur growls, desperation making it’s way into his voice. “You can’t be dead. You aren’t! I can see you!”

“I don’t know what to tell you!” Merlin yells.

“Are you alive or not?” Arthur shouts, and Merlin stumbles backwards, tripping on his own feet and sprawling to the floor. “Just give me an answer! Are you real or are you a dream?”

Arthur stands over his fallen friend, staring down harshly, silently begging him please, just tell me you’re alive.

“I think Gaius is right,” Merlin says, his voice so small Arthur barely catches it.

Arthur’s mind freezes as though he’s been plunged into a frozen lake. “No,” He shakes his head in denial, backing away quickly, stumbling fast away from Merlin, nearly tripping over his own feet. “It isn’t true, you’re not dead, you can’t be.”

“I’m sorry,” Merlin makes no attempt to get up from his position on the floor. “I am truly sorry, Arthur.”

The back of Arthur’s legs hit the bed and he finds himself sprawled on his back. Wildly shaking his head he curls up on himself, holding his head in his hands, willing the information to go away.

“Leave me!” Arthur may have shouted, or it may have been in his head. It doesn’t matter anymore. “You’re alive, you’re alive, you’re still alive...”

He chants his denial into the empty room until he falls asleep.

***

The morning after Gaius’ revelation Arthur wakes to see Merlin standing in the window, chewing his lip and looking uncertainly at Arthur. They study each other for a long moment before Arthur drags himself out of bed and starts his day. He does his best to ignore Merlin, and Merlin doesn’t say anything.

Time passes. As the days go by, Arthur and Merlin don’t exchange much more than a few cautious glances. Arthur is too afraid to do anything more. He replays his conversation with Gaius in his mind, over and over, trying to work out the truth. The facts that the physician presented make sense, Arthur will admit that much. Yet there Merlin stands before him.

Arthur knows that there must be some truth to Gaius’ words. If he couldn’t trust his own mind before, how can he know that he can trust himself now? How can one know the moment when vision has turned into delusion? He’s been so turned around and pushed completely out of his depth that he doesn’t know what’s real and what isn’t. No longer can he rely on his own senses.

Am I mad? Arthur wonders as he ponders Merlin’s image standing near the window. He’s always by the window these days, Arthur has noticed.

Can I rely on my own senses, or has my mind been so corrupted that the last shreds of my sanity are finished? Am I condemned to this torture for the rest of my days, seeing my manservant by my side no matter if he is dead or alive?

He grits his teeth in frustration, having abandoned his paperwork long ago. From his hard wooden chair he contemplates Merlin, once again wondering why him? Of all the people dear to me, why would the curse target my manservant?

But of course, the answer is one Arthur has always known. It is because Merlin was never just a manservant, not really. He has always been loyal and true, far more devoted than any servant Arthur has ever heard of. Before Merlin, servants had always been quiet and respectful, treating the Prince of Camelot with something similar to worship but closer to fear, much like Barney. Merlin was a breath of fresh air, something bright and new and brilliant. He made Arthur feel like a person just like any other, humble and mortal. His companionship gave Arthur the ability to move mountains.

The news that Merlin has magic does not surprise Arthur quite as much as he thought it would. He supposes that if things were different, if this bloody curse had never existed, perhaps this information would matter more to him. But after seeing Merlin die time and time again, forcing Arthur to endure the pain of seeing the one whom he holds dearest to his heart slaughtered so terribly, the news somewhat pales in comparison. Such pain as that far outweighs the pain of betrayal.

As Arthur watches Merlin, Merlin watches him, daring the King to make the first move. Arthur studies him, raking his eyes over every inch of his servant. Hours are spent contemplating the frayed ends of Merlin’s tunic, counting the loose threads and tears. He studies Merlin’s face, matching the exact position of his eyes and nose to the Merlin of Arthur’s memory. As Arthur looks harder and harder, he can tell that there is something not quite right about the Merlin he can see. The details are dulled somewhat, the contours and lines not as defined as before. His eyes hold a mysterious absence of light.

Arthur spends the most time contemplating those eyes. Even before the curse began, he spent time committing each detail of them to memory. He knows the exact shade of the irises, the way the eyelashes fan out above the whites of the eyes. He has catalogued each of Merlin’s expressions through his eyes, such that Arthur knows him better than he knows anything, and now that Arthur is paying attention, he can tell that there’s something not right about them.

As he realizes the true extent of his insanity, Arthur feels his heart breaking. A heavy weight is wrapped around his chest, just as real to him as that which restrains him in his dreams. Harder and harder it presses, cracking his ribs and flattening his lungs, leaving him gasping for breath. It works its way inside him, burning him and scorching him, drowning him. The weight of grief presses down until his heart has no more room to beat.

It is present as he contemplates this man before him. What is he, to Arthur? To him he’s always been real. From the days when he was just an arrogant, spoilt Prince, always longing for his mother’s touch and his father’s approval, things he could never hope to have. These hopes were the true delusions. Merlin has always been real, a slap in the face snapping Arthur’s mind into focus, showing Arthur the true path of right and wrong, guiding him and helping him, more loyal and true than anyone else.

That is why the curse chose Merlin, Arthur knows. No matter what happens Merlin is never absent from Arthur’s presence, and now that he is Arthur cannot handle it. The curse targeted the person dearest to the victim. Arthur loves Merlin, but it’s a type of love that Arthur doesn’t know how to describe. It isn’t the love of lovers, nor is it that of brothers. It is something deeper, a bond holding them together permanently, stronger than family. They never needed to touch each other or say any words to know that, to know that they are a certain, special kind of soul mates. Soul mates can break each other.

And no matter what Arthur tells himself, Merlin will always and forever be real to him, and perhaps that is why Arthur will never truly let Merlin go.

These are the thoughts that plague the King every day until he falls, exhausted, into bed at night, drifting to sleep underneath the gaze of his servant, cast into the nightmares that he has yet to escape from.

One morning Arthur wakes in a cold sweat from a particularly vivid nightmare, his fists clenched in the blankets and his throat raw from screaming in his sleep. He sits up abruptly, looking about the room, seeking out confirmation that his dreams were simply dreams. Unfortunately that isn’t always the case. Merlin stands with his hands wrapped around a bedpost, gazing at Arthur with worried eyes.

“Are you alright?” He asks, concern true in his voice. Arthur stares, backing away not so subtly, scrambling backwards on the sheets. His breathing becomes heavy, hot tears prickling at his eyes. The light coming from the window tells him that he should have been up hours ago, if this were any normal day. He looks over at the table, again covered with the buildup of papers and documents. He looks back at Merlin.

“Are you a dream or a nightmare?” He whispers, his voice still shaking. Merlin pauses.

“I’m your friend, and I’m concerned about you,” Merlin says. Arthur shakes his head vehemently, trying and failing to clear his mind.

Valiantly trying to stop his trembling, Arthur disentangles himself from the blankets and gets out of bed, not meeting Merlin’s eyes as he walks past him to pour himself a goblet of water. He downs it in one shaky gulp and takes deep, calming breaths as he pours himself another.

He hears Merlin walk up to him, footsteps whispering on the floor.

“I’m sorry,” He says.

“About what?” Arthur asks, focusing very hard on making sure all the water from the pitcher makes it into the goblet.

“I’m sorry for doing this to you,” Merlin says. “Whatever curse was cast upon you, it’s done so much damage and there’s nothing I can do.”

Arthur’s wince is involuntary. “You’re not really you.”

Merlin is silent for a moment. “I am, in a way. If I were simply your subconscious I would look like you, wouldn’t I? But I don’t. I look like me. I’m a memory.”

“But you still aren’t you. Him.” Arthur corrects himself.

“Maybe not exactly, but I’m the closest thing you’ve got.”

Finally Arthur turns to face the vision, startling when he meets Merlin’s eyes. He knows now that they aren’t real, but they are close enough to what he remembers that he’s nearly fooled.

“Why are you still here?” He chokes out. “You’re dead. I know that now. You should have gone away.”

Merlin gives a defeated shrug. “I don’t know. It’s up to you.”

“It could still be the curse.”

“Could be. But I don’t think that’s what it is.”

“Then what’s keeping you here?”

Merlin just looks at him until they are interrupted by a knock on the door, causing both men to jump slightly.

“Enter,” Arthur calls out, and Gaius walks into the room.

“Were you just talking to someone, sire?” He asks suspiciously. For a moment Arthur considers denying it, but then his shoulders sag, deciding there’s no use.

“Merlin,” He says simply, scrubbing a hand over his face and slumping into a chair.

“I thought as much,” Gaius sighs. “I was hoping you have given some thought as to what I spoke to you about.”

“Of course I have,” Arthur tells him wearily. “I haven’t been able to think about anything else these last few days.”

Gaius nods. “And?”

After a moment’s deliberation, Arthur says, “Merlin seems to have decided he’s dead after all. He isn’t really there.”

Gaius raises an eyebrow. “Yet you were speaking to him just before I came in?”

Arthur nods numbly. “He hasn’t gone away.” He looks up at Gaius helplessly, wondering if his terror shows in his expression. It probably does. “Why is he still here? If I know that he’s dead, why hasn’t he gone from my mind?”

Gaius pauses, then moves to take a seat at the table opposite Arthur. “Perhaps it isn’t enough to know it,” He wonders aloud. “Perhaps you need to do more than just acknowledge it. You must also accept it and let go.”

Arthur’s mouth suddenly goes dry. “What if I can’t do that?”

“You must do your best to try.”

Arthur’s eyes fall closed. He holds still, slight tremors running through his body that have nothing to do with the chill outside. When he opens his eyes he looks over Gaius’ shoulder to where Merlin stands, eyes sad. Once again Arthur’s heart splinters.

“I’ve made you this,” Gaius says, extracting from his robes a small vial not unlike the one Arthur was given to cure his headaches. “Hopefully this will make Merlin disappear.”

Arthur takes the potion warily. “This will make me forget him?”

“It will temporarily remove him from your memory, in a way. He won’t be completely gone, but he will fade from your mind so that you do not think of him.”

Again Arthur looks to Merlin, who’s giving small shakes of his head. Arthur sighs.

“Thank you, Gaius.”

Gaius bows his head and rises from the table. “If there’s anything else you need, Arthur, you know where to find me.”

Arthur inclines his head as Gaius leaves the room, closing the door behind him. His eyes wander to Merlin who takes Gaius’ vacated seat.

“So are you going to drink it?” He asks.

“It will make you go away,” Arthur murmurs, turning the vial over and over in his hands. It is no bigger than his little finger. “It will make me forget you.”

“You wouldn’t forget me completely,” Merlin points out. “Just for a while.”

“It will make me forget...” Somehow the thought of forgetting scares Arthur even more than the other man dying. To forget Merlin would be to lose him completely.

He rises from the table and stows the unopened vial in his cupboard, deep underneath the pile of neatly folded breeches.

“What are you doing?” Merlin asks.

“I’m not drinking it. Not right now.” Arthur shoots his servant a look and Merlin’s protests fall silent. The King nods to himself once, satisfied, and goes to work.

The nightmares that night are no easier to endure than the others.

The next morning Gaius visits Arthur again. Arthur notices, with a small, weary smile, that Gaius still bows respectfully to him in greeting. Old habits are hard to break, he supposes, even though Arthur isn’t much of a King anymore.

The meeting doesn’t last long. “How are you feeling today, sire?” Gaius asks casually. “Have things improved?”

Arthur considers lying, but when he catches Merlin’s eye, he decides there isn’t much point anymore. So he shakes his head, not saying that he didn’t take the medicine at all.

Gaius nods solemnly, giving a look that says, _‘I suspected as much.’_

With another bow he bids the King well and exits. Arthur avoids Merlin’s disapproving stare.

There’s commotion in the square outside the window a few afternoons later, and Arthur rises from his chair to see the hubbub. The sound of many horses and a few blaring trumpets suggest someone important has arrived.

Peering from the window with Merlin by his side, Arthur watches as a rather large group assembles in the courtyard below. The Knights are all together, standing with poise and nobility in their bright red cloaks. Several men beneath a dark purple flag stand similarly, poised around an exquisite carriage.

The door of the carriage opens and out steps a very regal looking man sporting a purple cloak and a dark, scruffy beard. The man, followed by his servants and men who are presumably his soldiers, approach the men of Camelot.

Leon steps forward and shakes hands with the man. They speak, both men gesturing grandly at the men behind him.

As Arthur curiously gazes down at them, the new arrival says something that causes Leon’s face to turn grim. Briefly his eyes flicker up to Arthur’s window, but turn away when he sees his King watching them. Leon replies and the man nods in understanding. Then Camelot’s senior Knight gestures to the doors of the palace, inviting the man and his men inside.

Soon the courtyard is empty but for the servants. Arthur turns to Merlin, brows furrowed.

“What do you think this is all about?” Merlin asks.

“I suspect we’ll find out soon enough.”

Arthur’s prediction turns out to be correct. Less than an hour later there is a knock at the door, and Merlin and Arthur exchange apprehensive looks before Arthur calls out for the visitor to enter.

Three people step into the room. Gaius and Leon enter first, followed by the unidentified arrival.

“My Lord,” Say the first two with respectful bows in Arthur’s direction.

“Gaius, Leon,” Arthur says, nodding to each of them in turn. Merlin eyes the stranger suspiciously.

“Sire, allow me to introduce Lord Garrett,” Leon says, gesturing to the stranger. The arrival steps forward with a warm smile.

“Pleased to finally meet you, King Arthur,” Garrett says with an inclination of his head.

“Hello,” Arthur says warily.

“Arthur, Lord Garrett is family to you,” Gaius says. Lord Garrett nods.

“I am cousin to your mother,” He supplies.

“I see,” Arthur says carefully. “Is there something wrong? Something you are in need of?”

“Why should something be the matter?” Lord Garrett says, the smile still on his face. But Arthur doesn’t miss the way that the atmosphere in the room tenses.

“My mother’s land was far from here,” Arthur says. “And if I’ve never met you, it’s likely that you have come a long way as well. Such a journey, especially at this time of year, would not be made unless it was urgent.”

Lord Garrett blows air from his nose in a ghost of a laugh. “I can see you’re still the intelligent King the people speak of. I assume you got that from Ygraine.”

He waits, perhaps hoping for a friendly response from Arthur. Arthur merely raises an eyebrow, and Garrett’s face falls somewhat before he pulls the smile back into place.

“I’ve been summoned by members of your council to...assist you with the hardships of running a kingdom,” Garrett explains.

“Assist?” Arthur questions. “Assist how?”

“Nothing big,” Leon quickly interjects. “He will preside over court and council, mostly.”

Arthur frowns. “I trusted you with that task, Leon.”

Leon clears his throat uncomfortably. “I know that, sire, but it’s been quite a while and I’m not trained in that field, and I fear that it would not be wise for me to be in such a position for too long.”

“Sir Leon is a fine Knight, but he isn’t a King,” Gaius offers, repeating his own words from long ago.

“So Lord Garrett is to take his place?” Arthur says indignantly. “Camelot already has a King!”

“We understand that, Arthur,” Gaius says patiently. “Lord Garrett will not be taking your place. He will simply act as a Regent for the time being.”

Arthur eyes Garrett with newfound suspicion. He knows, already, the words that are being unsaid by the other people in the room. Merlin voices these thoughts, leaning close to Arthur to speak in a low voice.

“You know what’s going on, don’t you?” Arthur struggles not to look at him. If the others noticed the way his eyes flickered briefly to the side, they do not show it.

Arthur swallows. “Have you really lost such faith in your King?”

“Not at all, Sire,” Garrett says. “I would never wish to disrespect you in such a way. However, Sir Leon and your physician seem to think it would be best for me to spend some time here.” He looks upon Arthur with apprehension, as though afraid Arthur is going to jump at him, reminiscent of the look Barney gave him, except that this man wears a smile that doesn’t quite reach the eyes. “Of course, if you have any objections you have all power to remove me. After all, you are the King.”

There’s something in Garrett’s tone as he says the word ‘King’ that strikes something in Arthur. It’s as though Garrett is suggesting that Arthur isn’t fit to rule Camelot, and just as Arthur opens his mouth to protest, he notices Merlin standing in his peripheral vision. He stops, meeting his eyes fully. Garrett subtly glances to where Arthur is looking, and his shoulders tense.

“No, I have no objections,” Arthur says finally, turning his gaze back to the noble. “If Sir Leon and Gaius trust you, then so do I.”

All three of the other men breathe a noticeable sigh of relief, and some of the tension in the air loosens.

“Thank you, Your Highness,” Lord Garrett says with a bow. “That your men are the finest in the land is not simply a rumor. I can assure you Camelot will be safe.”

Arthur nods. “Indeed. I want regular reports, then, of how the kingdom is faring.”

Suddenly the atmosphere tenses again, Leon and Gaius exchanging vaguely frightened looks.

“Sire, that’s another issue we wish to address with you.” The expression on Gaius’ face is so incredibly grim that that Arthur’s breath immediately catches in fear.

“Go on.”

The physician takes a deep breath before speaking. “That is the reason we summoned Lord Garrett. We wanted to wait until you were well, but circumstances turned dire and we could no longer wait. There have been reports coming in from patrols of magical activity from the North,” He explains. “The evidence was clear, but the situation became urgent when a group of Knights were attacked and sent back with a warning.”

“Morgana,” Merlin whispers.

“It’s Morgana,” Gaius says. “She is planning to attack Camelot.”

Arthur’s throat goes dry. Of course, he thinks, mentally kicking himself. He should have seen this coming.

“She will probably be here within the next few days,” Gaius informs him. “She commands an army of thousands, and she is very powerful. We must be ready.”

Arthur nods. His hands have started shaking again, so he clasps them behind his back. “Of course. Do whatever you can.”

The three men nod in unison.

“If that is all, we will leave you to prepare,” Lord Garrett says.

“Yes,” Arthur says hoarsely. “Thank you.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Your Highness,” Garrett extends a hand and Arthur clasps it, noting how Garrett’s hand seems so much firmer than his own trembling one.

“You as well,” Arthur manages. With a final bow Lord Garrett exits the room. Leon gives him a regretful smile before following him.

“I’m sorry we had to do this, Arthur,” Gaius says quietly, when everyone else is gone. “But when we heard Morgana was coming we had no choice. Camelot needs more than just a skilled Knight to lead, and, well...”

“I’m not exactly fit to be King anymore,” Arthur finishes for him. Gaius flinches.

“That’s not what I was going to say.”

“It’s true. Camelot is in danger, she needs more than what I can give her.”

“Camelot has been in danger ever since you went insane,” Merlin says, and Arthur casts him a bitter look.

"This didn't happen when my father was ill," Arthur says, referring to Morgana's betrayal.

"When Uther was ill he had you to take his place," Gaius points out. "You have nobody else with training to rule a kingdom." 

Arthur grimaces and Gaius sighs. “You can always send Lord Garrett away and resume your place on the throne.”

Arthur shakes his head numbly. “I’m not fit to rule Camelot anymore,” he says. “My judgment is no longer stable. Just keep an eye on Lord Garrett for me. I don’t want him to make my people suffer.”

Gaius fixes him with a long, sad stare. “Of course, sire. If anything happens you will be the first to know about it.” He turns to leave, and just before he reaches the door Arthur calls out to him.

“Gaius?” The old man turns. Arthur hesitates.

“Just...thank you.”

Gaius bows his head in acknowledgment, finally going and closing the door behind him.

As soon as Gaius is gone Arthur staggers to a chair and sinks into it, holding his head in his hands.

“What are you going to do?” Merlin asks. “About Morgana.”

“I don’t know,” Arthur says into his hands. He lifts his face to gaze at Merlin, looking at him questioningly. “There isn’t much I can do.”

“You could fight,” Merlin says. “You could always go out there and fight her.”

“I could,” Arthur says. “But in the last battle against Cenred my decisions nearly lost us the fight. We would have fallen if it hadn’t been for you.” His breath catches as he says the last words, realizing the hard truth to them.

“No,” He says again. “Morgana has magic and more men than us. If I go out there I could only make things worse.”

Merlin says nothing. Instead he turns his head to look out the window.

“It’s winter,” He points out quietly. “Look.”

Arthur looks. He sees great fat snowflakes falling from a blinding white sky, lazily making their way down to earth.

“The first snow,” Arthur whispers. Soon the land will be buried in white, the air frozen. Food will be scarce, people will go hungry. Briefly Arthur wonders about the rations, but then he remembers how his calculations never went anywhere, and that the people will probably suffer for it. He shudders, hoping Leon addressed the issue in his absence.

Arthur and Merlin fall into silence, watching the snow fall outside. Arthur thinks of his people and his doomed kingdom and he hopes, desperately, that someone will be able to save Camelot from the dangers Arthur has brought upon it.

*

Morgana’s attack is sudden. Despite the knowledge of her approach, she takes Camelot by surprise, the Knights unprepared. In the night, when the sky is the color of bruises, the citizens in the lower town are roused from their beds by the stomps and jeers of her many soldiers. They rush to their doors to see them march past, thousands of dark-clad men, leaving a trail of destruction in their wake.

Leading them is the sorceress herself, pale skin glowing in the moonlight as she glides towards the castle, her eyes glinting with malice, throwing aside anyone and anything standing in her way.

By the time the warning bells go off Morgana is already at the drawbridge. By the time Arthur Pendragon has woken and leapt to his window she has reached the courtyard.

She stops when she hits the exact center of the square, her soldiers flooding around her like a stream around a rock. Her arms are spread wide, palms up, and in one swift movement a wave of energy bursts from her, knocking the Knights of Camelot to the ground. Her victorious grin can be seen even from Arthur’s position. Twin points of gold shine where her eyes are in the darkness of night.

Arthur swallows thickly, looking down at what has become of his sister.

His Knights lie on the ground, whether dead or unconscious Arthur can’t tell. Morgana’s minions ignore them, stampeding around them to get inside the castle. They swarm around their mistress, who stands as though savoring the moment, relishing in the prospect of victory.

“She can’t do this,” Merlin whispers by Arthur’s side, looking horror struck beside Arthur.

“It’s the perfect time for her to attack, Camelot is weak and virtually defenseless,” Arthur replies, barely concealing the tremor in his voice.

“They’re in the castle now,” Merlin murmurs, and indeed, the distant shouts and commotion of guards battling with invaders can be heard from below. “They’ll be coming for you.”

“I know,” Arthur says solemnly. He keeps his eyes locked on the courtyard--it wouldn’t do to lose control now. He must stay calm and collected.

Merlin purses his lips, as though expecting Arthur to say something else. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“Aren’t you going to do something?”

Arthur lets his eyes fall closed. “Why should I?”

Merlin splutters. “Why should you? Morgana wants you dead! She’s going to destroy the kingdom!”

“Exactly,” Arthur says, meeting Merlin’s disbelieving gaze. “Look at what she did to my men. She did that with only a thought, my sword will be no match for her power.”

“So you’re just going to stand by and watch?” The disappointment in his voice prods at Arthur’s guilt, causing him to shift uncomfortable.

“It brings me no joy to do so,” he says. “But I can’t fight against her, not anymore. I’m not the King I once was.”

“But you can be,” Merlin insists, “You have to be.”

“Remember what happened when Cenred attacked?” Arthur says wearily. “I was half-mad, and my actions killed many of my own men. The only reason Camelot didn’t fall that night is because of your magic, and now...well. We don’t have you to save us anymore.”

Merlin is silent for a beat. “Look out there,” He says forcefully, pointing out the window. Arthur obliges, taking in the wreckage of the city. Fires burn in the black of night, screams piercing the air.

“This is Camelot. This is your kingdom. Look at what’s happening and tell me that doesn’t break your heart.”

Oh, it certainly hurts to see Camelot fall to chaos like this, but Arthur swallows down the fear for his people. How can he save them? He can’t, not in the state he’s in.

“You have to fight,” Merlin continues, when Arthur doesn’t say anything. “You’re the King. You have to defend your people. You have to try.”

“But what if I fail?” Arthur demands. “If I fight and lose, Camelot will fall to ruin.”

“Arthur,” Merlin’s tone is forceful, causing Arthur to meet his sharp gaze. “The same will happen if you do nothing. You are of no use to your kingdom if you stay locked in your chambers for the rest of your life. As you waste away, Camelot will go with you. A year ago you would already be out there defending Camelot to your last breath. You must do the same now.”

Arthur faces his friend, guilt stirring deep in his gut because he knows Merlin is right.

“Alright,” He concedes. “You’re right. I have to try.”

“Go,” Merlin nods.

Arthur casts one last look down at the courtyard. Morgana has come to life, striding from her spot in the center of the square towards the steps leading up to the palace. She’ll be here soon.

Arthur grabs his sword from its place by his bed. He feels a bout of self-disgust as he wipes off the thin layer of dust that accumulated during his months of inactivity.

Soon he has burst from his chambers and is sprinting down the corridor. A rush of excitement floods him as he runs through the halls of the castle that he hasn’t seen in months, Guards standing at either end of the corridor, protecting the King.

“Sire!” They say, taken aback at seeing Arthur out of his chambers.

“Stand aside, be ready to fight,” Arthur commands, and they obey. He rushes past them towards the sounds of fighting below.

The castle is full of Morgana’s men, raging against the soldiers of Camelot who are doing their best to defend the palace. Already Camelot is losing, having lost so many Knights before. Arthur sees Sir Elyan backed into a corner, valiantly fending off an attacker. The enemy forces the sword from the Knight’s hand, causing him to drop it with a pained scream. In the next second the opponent prepares to strike Elyan dead, but Arthur rushes forward, effectively stopping him by driving Excalibur through his chest.

“Arthur!” Elyan exclaims in surprise as the enemy drops to the floor.

“Didn’t think I’d leave you to defend Camelot on your own, did you?” Arthur says, getting a grin from the other Knight.

The moment doesn’t last long before more men are upon them and the fighting continues. Arthur battles his way through the castle, moving with renewed skill and expertise. Adrenaline pulses through his veins, the thrill of battle filling him with excitement that he hasn’t felt in a long time. He steps with agility and finesse, deflecting each attack sent his way. Morgana’s soldiers fall by his sword, one after the other, as he makes his way outside.

Morgana is nowhere to be seen. Standing in the middle of the courtyard, Arthur growls in frustration. The area is sparsely populated with only a few of Morgana’s men that Arthur easily sends to the ground to lie amongst the Knights.

Now standing alone, Arthur takes a moment to catch his breath. The breeze ruffles his hair and he inhales the frozen winter air, enjoying the way the cold stings his nose. In all the time he spent holed up in his chambers, he’s missed this. The fresh air cools Arthur’s sweat-soaked skin and sparks his adrenaline-rushed mind.

When he starts shivering, Arthur realizes for the first time that he isn’t wearing any armor. He’s still in his simple breeches and light tunic, too little for this weather and far too light for battle. Bruises paint his arms and his tunic is covered in tiny cuts and tears that he didn’t notice getting.

Nearby, one of his Knights begin to stir. Recognizing it to be Sir Leon, Arthur jogs over to him and drops to one knee. The Knight groans and brings a hand to his head, his eyes fluttering open and focusing on his King leaning over him.

“Arthur!” He says abruptly, scrambling to sit up. “What are you doing?”

“Fighting, of course,” Arthur says, offering a hand to haul Leon to his feet.

“You’re fighting?” Leon says, his eyebrows slightly raised.

“I know I haven’t been much of a leader lately,” Arthur says apologetically. “But I’m here now, and I’m going to defend Camelot alongside you, if you’ll let me.”

Leon gapes at him for a moment, surprise written all over his features. Clearly, he wasn’t expecting Arthur’s help.

“It would be an honor,” Leon replies, his face splitting into a happy grin that Arthur returns as the two clasp forearms in camaraderie.

“I need to find Morgana,” Arthur says, releasing Leon’s arm and readjusting his grip on his sword. “She went into the castle, I’m going in to look for her. You stay here and try to rouse the others.

He starts back into the castle, but he’s stopped by Sir Leon’s hand on his arm.

“Sire, are you sure that’s wise? Don’t you think I should go with you for assistance? After all, Morgana is a powerful sorceress.”

Arthur smiles warmly, nodding once before charging into the castle, Leon right behind him.

They find her easily enough, lounging in the council room, surrounded by a few of her men.

“Arthur,” she says as he bursts into the room. “What a pleasant surprise to see you out and about.” Her cold smile vanishes as her eyes fall on Leon trailing behind. With a golden flash of her eyes she sends him slamming into the wall, crumpling to the ground to lie still.

Arthur gives a startled shout, but Morgana holds up a hand from her position on the throne. “He’ll be fine, he’s just knocked out. Be glad I didn’t kill him.”

“You have to stop this, Morgana,” Arthur says, gesturing with his sword all around him, at Morgana’s henchmen and the sounds of battle outside.

“Why should I?” Morgana spits. “You did the same to me. I’m just returning the favor.”

“You did this to yourself,” Arthur says. Dimly he’s aware of the doors to the council chambers closing, sealing him in the room with his sister. “You had a good life here in Camelot, yet now you would see it burn.”

“Uther would have seen me burn for my gifts,” Morgana retorts, her eyes wild. “As would you.”

She stands suddenly in a grand sweep of black cloth and wild eyes, advancing towards her brother. Arthur shifts, lifting his sword as a warning. “You burn my kin, Arthur Pendragon, because an old man once told you to. It hurts to see such a worthless, arrogant brute sitting on my throne.”

Arthur swallows heavily. “I’m sorry for what my father did to you and your kind,” He says. “But I am not him.”

“You keep saying that, yet you have done nothing to destroy his legacy.”

Arthur is silent.

“You have stood by and watched as innocent people are persecuted, you wretched thing of a man. You are no better than Uther.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Arthur argues. “In my time as King I have not yet executed a sorcerer without evidence that they were conspiring against me. I do believe myself to be a fair and just King.”

“Ah, but where has this ‘fair and just King’ been lately?” Morgana asks, a cold smile creeping onto her face. “Rumor has it you’ve been locked away in your chambers, too afraid to come out.”

Arthur swallows. “That doesn’t matter. I’m here now, and I will stop you from destroying my kingdom.”

Morgana chuckles darkly, her eyes glowing as she brings up her palm. Excalibur is wrenched from Arthur’s grip by an invisible force, and he reaches for it uselessly as it arcs through the air and into Morgana’s waiting hand.

“Poor, powerless Arthur,” She croons, stroking edge of the blade with her thumb. “It’s not going to be that easy. I know your weakness, after all.” Her eyes flash dangerously, glinting with something that isn’t magic.

Suddenly, Arthur hears soft breathing behind him, and he turns his head minutely to see Merlin standing beside him, glaring at Morgana with hate.

“Are you looking at him now?” The sorceress smirks, drawing Arthur’s attention back onto her. “I must say, I wasn’t expecting the curse to have quite this effect.”

Arthur stares for a moment. Up until this moment, he had forgotten about his servant, so focused as he was on the fighting.

“You cursed him,” Merlin says, his voice low and menacing.

“Although I am very pleased with the results,” Morgana goes on, her eyes trained on Arthur. “I expected it to target Guinevere, you seemed very fond of her.”

Arthur asks, “What did you do?” at the same time Merlin does. Without his sword, Arthur feels helpless, so he balls up his fists, holding them stiff at his sides.

“It was a simple enough spell,” Morgana says, walking almost casually towards her brother, who takes a step back. “All I needed was for you to be out on your own, and someone to cast the spell. It was perfect. You were completely vulnerable, out there in the woods all alone.”

“I had Merlin with me,” Arthur argues, slowly backing up. He realizes that he’s walking himself into a corner, so he stops to hold his ground.

Morgana scoffs. “Merlin? He’s a serving boy, he didn’t matter.”

“Oh, he matters,” Arthur retorts, taking an angry step forward. At his movement Morgana’s eyes glow, throwing Arthur to the ground. Merlin shouts at Morgana. She moves past him, glaring down at her brother.

“Obviously he matters more than I thought,” She muses. “Who knew your attachment to a simple servant could bring about your downfall?” Her eyes flash again, dragging Arthur along the stone floor, his head colliding painfully with the wall. Spots erupt across his vision, partially obscuring Morgana’s image looming over him.

“News travels fast, you know,” She informs him. “Did you think your people haven’t noticed the odd behavior of their King? Rumors have spread of your behavior. They say you haven’t left the castle in months. Is that true? Were you so close to Merlin that his death would drive you insane?”

The glee in her tone angers Arthur more than her words. Vainly he tries to pick himself up off the ground, ignoring the dull, throbbing pain in his head. He manages to lift himself up onto his elbows before he is pushed back onto the floor, his head once again hitting the stone. Darkness swims at the edge of his vision, closing in so that all he can see is Morgana’s form.

“Arthur Pendragon,” He hears Morgana say through the ringing in his ears. “Once, the people spoke of the mighty King you were. They told stories of your bravery and your mercy. They didn’t realize their hero is a fool.”

She kneels down beside him, her smirk filling Arthur’s sight. He struggles against the magic holding him to the ground, desperate to fight her, the pain in his head blocks out his senses so that he can barely comprehend his sister’s words.

“Stay strong, Arthur,” Merlin whispers somewhere near him, his voice thick with desperation.

“Now the people tell different stories,” Morgana goes on. “Now they talk of the mad King. They say Arthur Pendragon is gone completely. They’re even beginning to doubt your ability to rule.”

“Morgana, please...” Arthur begs, gasping for breath.

“Of course, as soon as I heard that I came right away. I found there’s a regent ruling in your place. Lord Garrett, they said his name was.” She sighs in a parody of regret. “He was a terrible fighter. He didn’t last two minutes against my men.”

Arthur is no longer listening. The magic binding him increases in pressure, crippling his ability to breathe. His hands scrabble uselessly at his chest and neck, pulling at the weights that aren’t there.

“Imagine that. The great King of Camelot, reduced to such dementia that his people lost all faith in him.” Morgana brings an almost gentle hand to brush Arthur’s sweat-damp hair out of his eyes. “Locking yourself in that room all day, wasting away for a servant you grew too close to.” Suddenly she grabs his face in her hand, fingernails digging painfully into his cheeks.

“Poor Arthur,” Morgana croons, tightening her grip. “You’ve survived for so long you’ve forgotten what it is to live.”

She holds him there for a moment, smirking as she takes in his pitiful, gasping form.

“You know what?” She says, tilting her head to one side, considering him. “I think I might keep you. Killing you would be far too easy.” She forcefully releases him and straightens up.

“Guards, bring him to the cells,” She commands, and Arthur is grabbed by two pairs of dirty hands that haul him up. He’s too weak to stand, so he dangles uncomfortably by his shoulders, his head lolling to his chest.

“Camelot has a new Queen now,” Morgana taunts, bringing Arthur’s sword to his chest and dragging it up until it reaches Arthur’s chin, forcing him to lift his gaze. “You’ve lost, dear brother.”

With a final nod from Morgana Arthur is dragged to the dungeons.

*

The throne room was one room that Morgana did not allow the battle to reach, probably wanting to preserve its grandness for her official coronation. However, Arthur muses, the throne room looks anything but. True, the gold still shines in the sun rays slanting from the windows, but the spirit of the occasion sucks the splendor away, so that the grandeur is dulled somewhat. The faces of the nobles are somber as they look at their feet in a way that looks like a bow, their clothes wrinkled and their faces weary.

Arthur himself stands at the head of the crowd, his hands and feet bound in heavy shackles. The chains pull at his wrists, chafing the skin there. Unlike the other nobles in the room, Arthur’s shirt is still torn from the battle and stinking of two days’ worth sitting in the filthiest dungeon cell of Camelot.

Beside him, Merlin quietly fumes. “She can’t do this. She doesn’t have the right.”

“She did,” Out of the corner of his eye he sees some nobles shift, casting him a wary glance. He suddenly remembers that to anyone else, it looks like he’s talking to thin air. He sighs internally, reminding himself that they already think him crazed.

“How can you say that?” Merlin exclaims, fixing Arthur with a glare. “This is your kingdom! She’s taking your crown! Think about what she’s done to you, Arthur, what she’s going to do to your people. Camelot is going to become dark, and you’re just going to let it happen?”

“You speak as though I don’t care!” Arthur snaps. “Is that really what you think?”

Merlin at least looks sheepish. Arthur continues.

“You’re right, this is my kingdom, my people, my throne, and it breaks me heart to see it fall to Morgana’s evil rule. But there is nothing I can do. Nothing. Look at me.”

He gestures to himself, at the chains binding his limbs and his torn, dirty clothing. “I’m the mad former King, there’s no power in that. I can’t do anything to stop her now.”

Merlin is quiet for a moment. “Don’t lose hope, Arthur,” he says quietly. “She won’t rule for long.”

Arthur sighs. “She’s a sorceress, Merlin, and a powerful one.”

“But she can be killed.”

Arthur snorts. “I won’t be the one to do it. Look at what she’s reduced me to. I’m not a King anymore. I’m a madman in chains.”

Before Merlin can reply, the doors at the back of the room open. Everyone turns to see Morgana stride in, head held high and decorated with a triumphant grin.

For a moment, Arthur thinks she looks like the Morgana he once knew. She’s cleaned herself up into something resembling her former self. Her torn black dress has been replaced with an elegant blood-red gown, woven with intricate black and silver designs at the hems. Her hair has been brushed to its former gloss, cascading over her pale exposed shoulders in dark waves. At her waist, Excalibur shines in the sunlight.

As she gets close, she catches Arthur’s eye, and her smile transforms into a smirk. Arthur holds her gaze, hatred pouring from his skin so purely that he’s surprised she cannot feel it. She passes him and takes the steps up to the elaborate throne, taking her seat with the air of one who had spent many nights dreaming of this very moment.

Geoffrey of Monmouth steps forward, or rather, is pushed forward by one of Morgana’s henchmen, holding in his shaking hands a glittering crown.

“By the power vested in me by the sacred laws of Camelot,” He proclaims, his voice grim, “I pronounce you, Morgana Pendragon, Queen of Camelot.” He lifts the crown and settles it onto Morgana’s head, the gold shining against her dark locks.

“Long live the Queen,” Geoffrey announces. His voice rings out in the silent throne room, hanging in the air for what feels like an eternity, until Morgana’s soldiers begin to repeat the words.

“Long live the Queen!” They shout from their places throughout the throne room, their gravelly voices rising in a cacophony of ugly sound. Behind him Arthur can feel the hot, stinking breath of one of them, ruffling his hair.

He looks around. Merlin stands stiffly, staring daggers at Morgana, anger radiating from his expression. The other nobles stand with their heads bowed in deference. Arthur notes with a hint of pride that not a single one of them is pledging their allegiance, holding their silence in the only form of defiance they can show. For that, Arthur is grateful.

A rough hand forces Arthur to his knees. Shock shoots up his legs at the impact, and he grimaces against the shackles digging into his ankles. He looks and meets Morgana’s eyes, smiling smugly as her men repeat the words, again and again.

“Long live the Queen! Long live the Queen!”

**

The time passes in a blur of moldy bread and increasingly filthy clothes. It's been a week, maybe more. Arthur loses track. He sleeps, wakes up, nibbles on his scraps of food, and goes back to sleep. Sometimes daylight filters in through his solitary window, but it isn't near enough to illuminate the entire dingy room. So Arthur spends his time in near constant darkness, thinking and sleeping. There isn't much else for him to do.

Lying on the rotting piles of straw, his head pillowed on his arms, he curls in on himself in an attempt to ward off the bitter cold coming in from the winter outside. Wallowing in his own filth, amongst rodent droppings and stale leftovers, the former King of Camelot has been reduced to a common rat.

Deep in the bowels of the castle, Arthur can't hear much of what has become of his kingdom. There's the occasional murmur of distant voices, but otherwise the castle is silent to his ears. He doesn't know what Morgana will do, or what form her wrath will take upon his kingdom. Whatever she does, it will not be good.

He winces as the shackles on his wrists and ankles rub against his skin, having already worn away the top layers, exposing the shiny, stinging pink underneath. He exhales sharply at the sensation, the sound of his breath the only thing he hears beyond the confines of his cell.

This is what I have become, Arthur thinks bitterly. So lost and trapped in his own mind that he somehow wound up here in Camelot's grimy dungeons.

Anger and regret tumble through his mind like waves in a storm, growing higher and higher before crashing down and another one to takes its place. Over and over the prevailing thought in his mind is: I've failed. Not only as a King, but as a man. He failed his kingdom, allowing his insanity to corrupt his mind. He had retreated so far into the depths of his head, too afraid to face his grief, so selfish that he cost his people their lives.

"It isn't your fault, you know," Merlin says, as though he can sense Arthur's thoughts. Which, Arthur thinks, he probably can. He doesn't reply. Maybe if he ignores him Merlin will go away.

"Arthur," Merlin tries again, grasping the bars separating them to lean in closer. "You did your best to save Camelot. We were already weak, and Morgana's army was powerful even without magic."

"Leave me alone," Arthur mumbles, refusing to look up.

"Not until you forgive yourself," Merlin insists.

"You're the one who convinced me to go out there," Arthur snaps irritably. "Look at what good that did. Camelot fell anyway."

"You would be feeling worse if you hadn't done anything," Merlin points out. "You know that if you had stayed hidden away in your chambers you would be feeling worse tenfold."

Arthur is quiet. "It doesn't matter. Morgana won."

"Arthur," Merlin says with a hint of exasperation. "Look at me."

Arthur hesitates before lifting his eyes. Merlin kneels on the floor with both hands clinging to the bars of the cell, as close to Arthur as he can get. The torchlight casts flickering shadows across his face, making it easy for Arthur to believe in his supernatural state.

"You did what you could," Merlin says. "This doesn't have to be over. Morgana isn't going to live forever."

"She's a sorceress, Merlin, she won't go down without a fight."

"There's always a way, though. Not even she can be truly immortal."

"Are you proposing I kill Morgana and take back my throne?" Arthur scoffs. "I can give you a list of numerous reasons why that wouldn't work."

"You care enough about your kingdom and your people not to let it be crushed under Morgana's hand," Merlin says. "If there was any way to bring Morgana down, you would do it."

"How could I?" Arthur demands, shifting into a sitting position with his back to the wall, facing his servant.

For the first time Merlin falters, jaw working as he ponders the question. "I don't know," He says finally. "Maybe Gaius can help you find a way. There's got to be one."

Arthur sighs, letting his forehead drop to his knees. This is pointless, he thinks. Assassinating an evil sorceress from within the locked doors of his cell is an impossible feat. Morgana is strong and powerful, Arthur has no hope of fighting her. He never did. He should have realized that earlier.

"I've gone mad and everyone knows it, there's little I can do to kill a High Priestess," He mumbles into his knees.

Merlin exhales an exasperated sigh so faint that Arthur wouldn't have heard it if he didn't know Merlin as well as he does. Now he knows that Merlin is trying hard to reinstate confidence in Arthur, but Arthur is being too stubborn to cooperate.

He reminds himself that Merlin isn't Merlin, though, and the thought gives him pause. If this version of his friend is his own representation, then that means somewhere in his subconscious he believes in what Merlin is saying. Some part of him, deep within his mind understands and agrees with Merlin's argument. But Arthur is too afraid, too trapped in his own misery and insanity to go through with it. How could he possibly muster up the strength and courage that he used to have?

Merlin opens his mouth to reply, but stops when the sound of approaching footsteps echo through the stone halls, drawing nearer and nearer to the cell. Arthur looks up just in time to see Morgana come into view on the other side of the bars. Standing tall in a dark, emerald-green dress with diamonds glittering from her ears, she stops when she sees him huddled there, her blood-red lips tilting up into a smirk.

Two guards come into view two steps behind her, standing at attention next to their Queen. They must be from Morgana's original army, Arthur deduces, from the way they look hungrily at him, smirking just as cruelly as their leader.

Merlin jumps to his feet, hissing with hatred. As Morgana wraps her hands around the bars of Arthur's cage, Merlin glares daggers at her, standing so close that surely Morgana can feel his labored breathing against her cheek. But she gives no indication of awareness, instead smiling evilly down her nose at the man crouched against the far wall.

"Well if it isn't my dear brother," She sneers, clearly enjoying the state that the man is in. "Look at what you've become."

Arthur huffs, looking up at his sister warily. "Do you want something or did you just come here to taunt me, Morgana?"

She just smiles gleefully down at him. "I just wanted to see how you were faring." She gives a deliberate, mocking chuckle. "Arthur Pendragon, fallen from grace. Such a pity. Turns out you're no different than the other filth."

Again, Arthur asks, "What do you want?"

Morgana tuts. "That's no way to address your Queen. "

Arthur glares at her, his lips sealed tightly against his teeth. Morgana raises an eyebrow, and suddenly her eyes are flaring gold, causing Arthur's head to jerk back and collide sharply with the wall behind him. It's not enough to cause any damage, but stars spark momentarily across his vision and he grunts with pain. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Merlin jump angrily, his hands half extended towards the witch before him.

"I came because I wanted to show you something," Morgana says airily, waving an elegant hand. Immediately the guards step forward and unlock the door to the cell. Arthur doesn't resist as they grab him by the arms and haul him roughly to his feet.

"Where are we going?" He asks, and Morgana grins, her eyes sparkling with michief.

"Patience."

She turns and walks down the hall, Arthur dragged after her. The guards have a painful grip on each arm, pinning the limbs to his sides as he is marched through the dungeons. Merlin walks after them, looking confused and concerned, keeping a careful eye on the new Queen.

Morgana says nothing as they walk through the castle, ignoring Arthur's protests and inquiries. Eventually he falls silent, choosing instead to look around the castle that he hasn't seen in days. At the first look the castle hasn’t changed. The corridors are still grand, decorated with elegant tapestries and intricate carvings in the stone. But the people milling about are different. The servants keep their eyes on the ground as the party walks near them, scurrying away in fear. Arthur bites down on his tongue as he sees the terror in the expressions of his former people.

At one point as he’s moved past an open door he thinks he catches a glimpse of Gaius the physician treating a patient. His face is worn and weary, looking older than ever before. Arthur wants to call out to him, to implore his old friend not to lose hope, but he's dragged away before he can open his mouth.

Morgana leads him up some staircases and they emerge onto a balcony overlooking the city. She gestures over the land.

"Take a look, Arthur," She says, and Arthur does. At first he sees nothing amiss in the city blanketed with snow, but a closer look reveals the way the people are moving, walking with hunched shoulders, moving quickly as though they are eager to get out of the open.

"The people have surrendered," Morgana tells him. "They know they cannot fight against one as powerful as me. They've accepted and welcomed me as their Queen."

Arthur shakes his head slowly, Merlin more enthusiastically. "They wouldn't," The servant says, aghast. Arthur keeps his eyes on the ground, and as he watches he sees a man in a dark cloak step into the path of a young girl carrying laundry, grinning down at her.

"Your Knights, on the other hand, are being a bit more stubborn," Morgana goes on.  
"Their loyalty to you is going to get them killed soon enough. They don't seem to realize that swearing allegiance to me would make things much easier on them." She lifts one shoulder in a shrug. "Oh well. An example can be made out of them.”

Arthur watches the man on the ground talk to the girl, who shrinks back, frightened. She tries to step around him, but his big hand shoots out to grab her arm, causing her load to tumble to the slushy ground. "If you hurt any of them--" He grits out, but Morgana cuts him off.

"--You'll what? You'll come after me? I hardly think that's wise," She says. Arthur chooses not to respond, letting Merlin's murderous look reflect his own emotions. Two others have joined the man on the ground, the three of them surrounding the poor girl, laughing as they prod her with thick, dirty fingers, pushing her roughly between them. From this distance he can't hear her, but he can see her mouth open in a frightened scream, her hands coming up to shield her face as they push her. Then one of their eyes flash gold and the girl is lifted into the air, dangling with her arms over her high above the three men.

"You remember Guinevere, that little serving girl you’re so fond of?” Morgana says, “We used to be such good friends, it’s a pity she doesn’t feel the same loyalty as she used to. We could have been friends again, I would have liked that. She’s back in my services though, whether she likes it or not.” She pauses to peer closely at Arthur. “Do you know what my plans for the kingdom are?" Morgana continues. Arthur shakes his head, and Morgana lowers her voice, leaning in closer. "I'm going to invite all magic users into the city," She says, her tone gleeful. "And I'm going to give them complete liberties on Camelot. They will be able to do whatever they desire without fear of punishment."

Morgana's tone gives Arthur a sick feeling, bile rising up in his throat at her unspoken implications. His knees go weak, the guards' grip the only thing holding him upright. The three men on the ground have turned the girl upside down in the air, her dress falling to cover her face, exposing her legs to the harsh winter air. The men hoot and clap their hands appreciatively, jeering as she scrambles to cover herself.

"They can do whatever they choose, taking whatever pleasures and causing whatever pains they like onto the peasants in the lower town. The people will be their playthings, theirs to use, and abuse however they wish. I'm sure many of them are bitter at the years of oppression they've been forced through. This will give them a chance to unleash their full power onto their oppressors."

Horror grips at Arthur's heart as images flash through his mind. He's seen what magic can do, the terrible and grotesque ways it can twist a person. He's seen it with his own eyes, a thousand different ways,, again and again until Arthur is sure there isn't much he hasn't seen. The girl in the air thrashes wildly tangled in her dress, suspended helplessly above the three sorcerers.

"Why?" He manages to choke out, tearing his eyes away from the scene to stare at Morgana, gritting his teeth as close to her face as he can get. Her expression darkens at the edges, lips twitching and her eyes gleaming.

"For payback, of course," She states. "Everything that you and Uther did to my people, my people will be able to do to yours. Twenty years' worth of rage and fear will be unleashed onto them as punishment for your crimes."

Arthur fights to keep from trembling, fury coursing through his veins. He blinks once at her face, smooth and pale and full of contempt. She looks almost like she used to, before all this trouble happened. Back when Morgana was his friend, so full of kindness and compassion for those less fortunate than her. She used to be stubborn, her insults playful and her heart tame. Before Merlin came along, Morgana was the one person Arthur could consider a friend amidst the isolation of being the Prince of Camelot. He could confide in her and unwind a bit. He could be Arthur around her. What happened to her that could cause her once loving heart to turn so black?

"They're your people too, now," Arthur croaks out. "If you truly are Queen of Camelot, then you are responsible for them. They haven't done anything wrong."

"My quarrel isn't with the people of Camelot," Morgana sniffs dismissively. "This punishment is for you, not them. Finally you will know the pain of seeing your people suffer for crimes they didn’t commit."

Arthur looks back down in time to see the poor girl dropped onto the ground in a heap, her dress tangled around her torso. The men kick snow at her as she curls in on herself, using her arms to shield her legs from the cold.

"You can't do that," Arthur seethes, staring desperately at the peasant girl as the men magic the snow to pile around her exposed skin, feeling helpless to stop the abuse. Morgana smirks.

"I'm the Queen, I can do whatever I want. I have the power to let my kin take their revenge. A new day has dawned, Arthur, you should embrace it. Magic will reign powerful, and those who do not have it will bow to those who do. They will huddle in fear of us like the filthy cowards they are."

"It is not them who are the cowards, Morgana, it is you," Merlin says venomously, and Arthur repeats him. Morgana's expression twists into a frown, anger flashing across her face dangerously.

"How dare you," she spits, stomping her foot to the ground. The guards release Arthur's arms and a ripple of power rises up and pulls him to the floor. "You call me a coward, and yet it is you who lies defeated, powerless and pitiful and pathetic. You're the fallen King, what have you against me? So mad that you stood aside and let your kingdom fall apart around you."

"He fought you," Merlin pipes up, "He fought you with everything he had. He used his strength and compassion and love for his people to fight against you. All you have is fear and hatred. Take that away and what do you have left?"

Arthur groans through the splitting headache forming in his brain. "Leave it," He whispers, half hoping Morgana wouldn't notice, but knowing that she would.

"Is he here now?" Morgana laughs. "Did you really just talk to him?" Her grin widens. "Is he standing right beside you? Comforting you on the floor? Whispering consoling words into your ear?"

Arthur glares up at the woman, Merlin wearing a twin expression beside her.

"What did he say?" Morgana prompts eagerly. "What did he say to make you speak to him?"

Arthur clenches his jaw, reluctant to give her the satisfaction.

"Go on, what did he say?"

"He said you're a miserable coward." Now it's Arthur's turn to spit. Morgana's lips twitch into a frown before she smooths her expression back into the sneering sorceress.

"I knew the curse would bring about your downfall, but I never expected something like this to happen. Oh, this is too good," She chuckles.

"What do you mean?" Arthur asks. Morgana's magic no longer seems to be holding him down, so he props himself up on his elbows, glaring up at her.

"You loved him too much. It's sad, really."

"Just explain, Morgana."

Morgana's smirk only grows. She steps around him, walking back through the door they came from. The guards snatch Arthur from the floor, pulling him after her. Arthur casts a glance back to the ground below before he is dragged away, seeing the peasant girl lying on the snow, still huddled on herself. The three abusers have sauntered away, leaving her to gather her now ruined laundry on her own. Then Arthur is wrenched away by the guards, dragged back through the castle back to the dungeons. Merlin stays at the balcony edge, watching the girl for a few moments longer before following.

"The path to the downfall of men like you is through the heart," Morgana illustrates as she walks ahead of him. "I cursed you to see the one you love most die in the most horrific ways. You chose who you saw. Again and again you had to live through his death, and you were powerless to stop it. I was expecting you to break, and that's exactly what you did, although not quite in the way I was expecting."

She casts a frown over her shoulder. "Cenred failed me. It should have been easy for him to kill you, your sanity was gone by then. You should have been slaughtered in a heartbeat."

"Cenred was killed that night, Camelot won," Arthur reminds her.

"Yes, I wasn't counting on magic being present that night. I'll admit I was a little worried when I learned that the curse had been lifted."

Arthur's heart stops. He stumbles for a moment, gaping at her silk-covered back. "What did you say?"

Morgana smiles sweetly back at her brother. They descend through the castle, back to the dungeons again. "The curse has been lifted, dear brother, it has been this whole time."

"Lifted," Arthur and Merlin repeat together.

"The magic ended when Merlin was slaughtered in reality," Morgana explains. "But he never left, did he? You never let him go."

Arthur casts a furtive glance at Merlin, who gapes from Morgana to Arthur with wide eyes.

"All this time since his death you've only been torturing yourself," Morgana says, shaking her head slowly. They've reached the cell and Arthur is thrown inside, landing roughly back onto the floor. "It's all been you, in your head, driving yourself insane. After Merlin died, the curse had nothing to do with it."

Arthur slams his eyes shut, lifting himself to his knees. This can't be true, it can't be..."I may have cast the first spell, but once Merlin died it was all you."

"You're lying," Arthur grits out. Morgana simply smirks as the guards lock the doors with a final clang. Merlin grips the bars, torn between looking helplessly at Arthur and murderously at Morgana.

"You truly are mad. It's laughable."

"No," Arthur breathes. "Morgana, please—"

"I'll leave you to your hallucinations," she says. With a final smirk she blows a mocking kiss through the bars turns and walks away, the guards following obediently behind her.  
Merlin crouches softly to his knees, winding his fingers around the metal of the cage.

"It still isn't your fault," He promises, looking at Arthur earnestly.

"You aren't real," Arthur spits. "What do you know?"

"You can't blame yourself for this, Arthur. Morgana did this to you."

"Get away from me," Arthur says forcefully, lunging forward to bang his fists against the bars. Merlin jerks back, startled, scrambling until his back hits the opposite cell. "Leave me alone in my cage, alright? You don't know anything I don't know, so just shut up!"

Merlin stares at him for a long moment, staying absolutely still. Arthur huffs and moves back to the far corner, wrapping his arms around his knees and bowing his head, the only thing he can do to block out his surroundings.

Through his tiny window, a scream reaches his ears. He doesn't know who's cry it is, but it reminds him of the peasant girl, how he imagined she sounded as she was harassed. He tries to shut his ears against the sound, gripping his knees tighter and falling to the floor. He tries to fall asleep.

*

The growling of Arthur’s stomach penetrates his sleep, bringing him slowly into wakefulness. The rank smell of the cell clings to him, seeping in through the cracks in his skin and woven permanently into his clothes. The part of him that was raised as a Prince recoils at his current state, desperately wanting for a bath and a hot meal. The other part of him, the part that has dominated his person for some time now, doesn’t give thought to the smell, instead filling his thoughts with dull numbness.

Arthur's stomach growls again, a harsh reminder of the stale piece of bread still lying on the floor where the guard had carelessly tossed it. That was the last time Arthur was fed some days ago.

"You're hungry," Merlin states, his voice soft. Arthur lifts his eyes, staring at the bread from where his head is pressed against the floor.

"Yes," He whispers hoarsely, lack of water making his voice barely audible.

"So eat."

The bread fills his entire vision. It’s all he can see. But Arthur makes no move to reach out and grab it.

"No."

"Why not?"

"I don't want it."

"You need to eat," Merlin says, his voice sounding closer to Arthur's ear.

"What for?" Arthur says dully. "It's just bread."

"You need to eat," Merlin restates firmly.

"You eat it," Arthur says, still staring intently at the innocent bit of food before him.

"You know I can't," Merlin replies reproachfully.

"I can't either."

"Eat the damn bread, Arthur," Merlin snaps. "Otherwise you'll starve."

The last word resonates in Arthur's mind, or maybe it really does hang in the air, Arthur isn't sure. He's silent for a long moment, concentrating on keeping his breathing steady.  
"Maybe I don't care anymore."

Merlin sucks in a shocked breath. "You don't mean that," He says, his voice shaking as though he's fighting not to lose control. Arthur doesn't answer him. "You don't mean it, do you?" Arthur still doesn't answer.

"Don't lose hope," Merlin says, his voice burning with intensity. "You need to keep fighting."

Still Arthur says nothing. He doesn't see the point.

Merlin huffs an exasperated sigh, giving the bars a frustrated shake.

"Look," He says, his voice leveled, "A guard will come down soon to feed you again. When he does you should try and get out."

"How?" Arthur asks, lifting his head slightly to look at Merlin, fingers wound around the bars, sitting exactly as he has been during Arthur's entire stay in the dungeons.

"Knock him out," Merlin says simply, "It'll be simple enough, if the guard isn't expecting it."

Arthur considers him for a moment, taking in the way Merlin's gripping the bars and gazing at him so earnestly, his eyebrows low and his jaw set, carrying all the hope and confidence that Arthur lacks.

"How do you do that?" Arthur asks, "How can you still believe I'm capable of anything, after all that's happened?"

"Because I believe in you," Merlin replies immediately, "I always have. I watched you transform from a good Prince to a great King."

Arthur smiles softly, a tiny, almost dazed quirk of the lips. "You always did have more faith in me than I did," He says, and Merlin returns the smile sadly. "You always knew what to do when I didn't."

"That's why you should listen to me," Merlin says gently. "Eat your food, you need as much strength as you can get."

Arthur shifts to sit up, his back slumping against the cold stone of the wall. "I wish you could come inside," He whispers.

"Eat your bread," Merlin says firmly. Arthur blinks at him slowly, bringing up a hand to rub across his tired face. He's exhausted despite the sleep he's gotten in the cell. His fingers drag along the thin layer of grime covering his skin, a mixture of dirt and sweat building up around his hollowed, sunken eyes.

"The guard is coming," Merlin says sharply, turning a head to look down the hall. Arthur wonders what he sees. "Act quickly."

Merlin stands up, gesturing fiercely for Arthur to do the same. He does, using the wall as support as his legs wobble feebly from lack of use. He sways for a second, the heavy chains on his wrists pulling at him before righting himself as the footsteps of the guard sound nearer.

He has nothing to defend himself with. He positions himself near the door, back pressed on the far wall where the sunlight can't reach him from the window.

The guard comes into view, a thick, burly man dressed in clothing that might have been colored long ago, but has since been turned black with dirt. His face holds little expression as he opens the lock, swinging the door to toss another piece of stale bread inside.

Knocking him out turns out to be a simple task, taking advantage of the element of surprise and the guard's slow reflexes. It takes a firm grip and a quick knock of the head to the wall to send him crumpling to the ground with a surprised "oof!"

"Told you it would work out," Merlin says smiling, stepping close to the body, but not entering the cell where Arthur still stands, breathing heavily. He crouches down, rummaging through the guard's pockets until he produces a key to unlock the shackles around his wrists and ankles. As they fall away Arthur feels the immense relief from their weight.

"Now that it has, what would you have me do?" Arthur asks, standing up again, rubbing at his wrists.

"Get out of the dungeons, first of all," Merlin states, so Arthur jumps over the guard and makes his way through the depths of the castle.

He wanders the palace, Merlin trailing behind him. He keeps to the shadows, ducking behind statues and tapestries when someone comes his way. He comes to the conclusion that it's mid-morning, judging by the dim gray of the light. The air is crisp, the bitter cold cutting Arthur's skin like a knife. He shivers, rushing through the halls, not sure exactly where to go but determined to stay hidden.

He discovers that it isn't difficult to become invisible, which he supposes could have something to do with the state of his clothes. To anyone else, he looks like another ragged peasant, torn, dirty fabric hanging off of his somewhat withered body. Considering his sunken eyes and too-long hair, Arthur supposes he's unrecognizable in this state.

With this conclusion in mind, he stops walking so suspiciously. He moves with his head down and his shoulders hunched, trying to blend into the wall as much as possible, just like the servants.

Many people pass him without a second glance. Servants rush with linens and food spilling from their arms. They look equally frightened, their hair tousled and their expressions harried. Morgana's men stalk the corridors, leering at the servants and laughing when they scurry away in fear. One of them looks at Arthur as he passes and Arthur freezes, waiting to be grabbed and hauled back to the dungeons, or to Morgana. But the man just smirks before moving on, letting Arthur breathe a sigh of relief.

Arthur stumbles out into a courtyard, empty but for an older-looking woman hurrying through the snow. A pair of Morgana's soldiers follow her, laughing throatily as they cause snow to form balls and fling themselves at her back. The woman whimpers but does nothing to stop them, quickening her step and flinching each time the ice hits her.  
"Brutes," Merlin seethes beside Arthur, glaring murderously at the men as they chase the poor woman inside.

Before Arthur can reply, he hears his name spoken in a hushed tone. He whips around to see Gaius looking at him with bewilderment, medical bag dangling from his shoulder.  
"Gaius!" Merlin exclaims joyfully at the sight of his old guardian.

"What are you doing out here, sire?"

"Shh," Arthur says, bringing a finger to his lips. "Nobody knows I'm here."

"How did you escape?" Gaius inquires, peering at Arthur as though dubious of his existence.

"I knocked out a guard," Arthur says simply, "Now I need a place to hide."

"Come with me," Gaius says immediately, ushering Arthur ahead of him down a side hall towards his chambers.

They say nothing on their short journey, and when they close the door to Gaius' chambers they speak quietly.

"Sire, it's very dangerous for you to be out here," Gaius says, setting his bag down on a bench.

"I know," Arthur agrees, "But I had to get out of the dungeons."

"Does this mean you're going to try and stop Morgana?" Gaius asks, his eyebrows climbing. Arthur shrugs, dropping heavily into a rickety chair. Merlin stands beside him, giving him the same questioning look as the physician.

"I don't know," He admits. "Merlin convinced me to come out here, honestly."

Gaius' expression twists with sympathy and understanding. "Let me get you something to eat, you look awful," He says, bustling around to rummage through the contents scattered across a table.

"That's alright, Gaius, it isn't necessary," Arthur protests, earning him a sharp glare of disapproval from Merlin, but he looks pleased when Gaius ignores him and continues to rummage through his things. Arthur changes the subject. "How are you? Has Morgana mistreated you?"

"Morgana may hate me, sire, but she still has need of my skills as a physician," Gaius explains. "She knows there are some things magic can't cure, so she lets me tend to patients as long as I stay out of her way."

Arthur feels a rush of relief. "How are the people? How's she treating them?"

Gaius turns to Arthur with a somber face. "Morgana isn't treating the people at all. She has given her magic friends complete control over the city. It's madness out there." He approaches Arthur offering a cup in his hands, something herbal-smelling with steam curling up to dissipate into the air.

"I've seen," Arthur says bitterly, taking the cup, "What about the Knights? What has Morgana done with them?"

"She's killed some," Gaius sighs, "Others she keeps in chains, torturing them until they pledge their allegiance."

"Oh," Arthur breathes, bowing his head into the drink in his hands. There's that grief again, the never-ending guilt at the fact that he did this. "Has it worked?"

Gaius seems to struggle with himself before answering, as though afraid of Arthur's reaction. "A small few have given up," He admits softly. There's a soft intake of breath beside Arthur. "But most refuse to turn against you, Arthur."

"They still pledge allegiance to me?" Arthur asks, and Gaius nods.

"You are still their King, and they will fight for you until the end."

"I don't want that," Arthur says immediately. "I don't want them to give up their lives for a sick man."

"They don't see it that way," Gaius counters. "Would you rather they obey Morgana?"  
Arthur closes his eyes briefly, imagining a world in which his Knights took orders from that witch. She would command them to attack instead of defend, ordering them to sack other kingdoms to feed her lust for power. He tries to imagine Morgana telling Elyan or Percival to hurt and kill anyone who opposed her or magic, and the Knights being powerless to disobey.

"No," He whispers, "I don't want that."

"Then be glad it is not so."

Arthur hums in agreement, bringing the drink to his lips. It's too hot-- it burns his tongue and scalds his throat on the way down. He chokes lightly on the heat, but continues to drink. Once he gets past the shock of the temperature he finds it's quite sweet, and before he knows it the cup is empty.

"What about you, sire?" Gaius asks, moving to refill Arthur's cup, "What has Morgana done with you?"

"I've been in the dungeons," Arthur replies, "I'm left alone, mostly, except for when someone comes down to feed me every few days."

Gaius grimaces. "And Merlin?"

Arthur sighs, wrapping his hands around his cup. He wills the heat to seep through his skin, imagining it could travel through his flesh to reach his heart. "He's still here," He tells Gaius quietly.

"Now?"

Arthur nods, gesturing with his head to where Merlin stands beside him, looking between Arthur and Gaius with his lip caught between his teeth.

"He's always with me," Arthur says grimly, "Sometimes he doesn't say anything, he just stares at me. But he's always there, a constant presence whether I like it or not."

"Do you want him to leave?" Gaius inquires. Arthur pauses, considering.

"I don't know," he says finally. "I tell him to go away when he's bothering me, but he never does."

"It might take more than that to rid yourself of him," Gaius says.

"How?" Arthur demands, looking up to meet Gaius' eye. "Morgana told me that the curse was lifted when Merlin died. If I can't use enchantments, how else can I make him leave?"

"You must truly want it," Gaius says gently, "You have to accept his death and grieve over him as you should have. Until then he will never go away, and you won't be capable of defeating Morgana."

Arthur gapes, turning his head to look at Merlin, who is staring back at him, his expression hard. Merlin lifts an eyebrow, daring Arthur to speak, and as Arthur looks at this man, his friend, he thinks, I could never let you go.

With that thought he stands abruptly, sending the chair crashing into the wall and the liquid in the cup to slosh over his hands.

"Sire!" Gaius exclaims in alarm, as Arthur sets the cup down and strides towards the door. "Where are you going?" Arthur ignores him, wrenching open the door and dashing out.

Gaius's chambers fall behind easily as Arthur's feet carry him away, rushing through the castle. Something coils in his belly, tight and ravenous as he nears his destination. Merlin pants along beside him, asking Arthur where they're going. The question revives a memory, a different time when he lead Merlin to this place.

He manages to reach it without being spotted. A nondescript door, made of worn wood and dusted with spiderwebs. It opens at Arthur's touch to reveal a staircase that leads up in tight circles. Arthur closes the door behind him, slowing down as he makes his way up through the dim, barely lit stairs.

"Arthur..." Merlin says, recognition edging into his voice. They reach the top to find another door. This one hangs open, sagging on its hinges. There's a heavy lock near the handle which Arthur leans in to inspect. Once this lock would have been secure, only opening for whomever held the key. But this metal has been crushed, bent and mangled and rendered useless. Arthur runs the pads of his fingers along the spot where the metal joins the wood, feeling the drag of the splinters. Only an extremely strong, powerful force could have caused such damage.

"You really wanted to get out, didn't you," Arthur murmurs, hearing Merlin's breath catch.

"I wasn't going to be idle, was I?"

"No," Arthur says, "I don't suppose you would. You never did do as you were told." He lightly pushes at the door so that he has enough space to slip into the room beyond, blinking to allow his eyes time to adjust to the light. Looking around, he takes in the rotting straw sparsely covering the floor, the tiny room hardly big enough to pace in. Stumbling forward, Arthur makes it to the tiny window on the opposite wall. Peering out he can catch a glimpse of the snow-covered courtyard far below, the people small as ants.

"You could see everything," Arthur whispers, imagining the courtyard filled with bodies, fighting and moving as the sounds of swords and wounded men filled the night sky. His voice echoes in the tiny room, filling the silence when Merlin doesn't reply. He turns to see him, his eyes full and sad. And then it hits him, like a punch in the gut, that Merlin is dead forever and for good. The knowledge sends him backing up until he hits the wall, sliding down to crouch on the floor.

"You're dead," he whispers, so soft that he doubts anyone could have heard him. Dead, because of him. Dead, his body burnt and turned to ash alongside the others, or perhaps buried in some spot out in the woods, maybe sent back to Ealdor. Arthur mentally chastises himself because in all this time, he hasn't spared a single thought to Hunith's loss.

Loss. The word echoes in Arthur's mind, repeating again and again until it's a roar in his ears, thrumming in his brain until Arthur clutches at his hair, the weight of it tightening its hold.

I lost you, Arthur thinks, his eyes staring blankly at the image of Merlin standing before him. _I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry._

The loss consumes him as though it's an outside force, entering him through his ears, mouth, and nostrils, scratching at his insides and tearing him apart, clawing at him until he's been reduced to shreds. It's overwhelming to the point of breaking, his bones splintering and his lungs collapsing underneath it.

"I'm sorry," He gasps, struggling for breath. "Your last moments, they were..." Terrible, he finishes in his mind. He wonders what it must have been like for Merlin, running and dodging attackers, probably coming close to being stabbed a dozen times, fear and determination spurring him onwards until he saw Arthur. In his mind's eye he sees himself from Merlin's point of view as he was in the final moments of battle, on his knees with the enemy's sword at his throat. He imagines how Merlin must have saved him, wiping out the entirety of Cenred's army in the blink of an eye. Or maybe he threw himself at the group who had Arthur at their mercy, getting himself stabbed before rescuing everyone else.

Arthur remembers how in his last moments of lucidity that night, he saw a man killed in front of him, with a sword sprouting from his back...it must have been Merlin all along.

He looks up at Merlin now, standing in the middle of the little room, his hands hanging at his sides, piercing Arthur with his gaze. He isn't transparent like a ghost, and yet Arthur can see the emptiness of the room. He can see Merlin standing there, but at the same time it's as though he's in a separate reality, there and not there at the same time, simultaneously existing and not existing.

"Arthur, please, it's alright," Merlin says consolingly.

"There's nothing I can do," He continues, his voice dropping to a low whisper, "I can't stop this. It's going to keep going on and on and on, and all the while Morgana will become more powerful and I'll be forced to watch it all."

He gets up shakily, his limbs moving slowly as though in a dream, taking the four steps it takes to cross the room and then down the stairs, gaining speed until he's running despite the empty stomach. He can see Merlin running alongside him, shouting at him, but he can't hear him.

He doesn't stop until he reaches a secluded balcony on the other side of the castle, facing away from the main courtyard. Arthur remembers this place from when he was a young Prince. When the training and the royal duties became too much he would come here to this tiny, quiet place where he could just be Arthur.

The door closes behind him so that he's alone with himself and Merlin. He crosses to lean over the edge, peering down at the ground. The stone beckons below, cold and grey and lined with dirty snow.

"What are you doing here?" Merlin asks, eyeing Arthur with fear.

"It's all my fault and it's never going to end," Arthur whispers, "You, the Knights, they're all dead because of what I've done, and now they're suffering because I'm too weak to do anything about it."

"Don't think like that."

"Don't tell me how to think!" Arthur roars, his eyes riveted on the ground. "You're not even real! All this time you've just been my imagination, and now, and now..."

This side of the castle is deserted. Nobody will see.

"Powerless," He says, his voice shaking and hushed.

"Arthur, you're scaring me," Merlin says, "What are you doing?"

"The first time I saw you dead, do you know what it was like?" Arthur asks, turning his head minutely to see Merlin from the corner of his eye, "I thought it was my fault then, too. I had sent you into the woods in a fit of childish anger because you made a jibe about my weight, of all things. I thought I had killed you for that."

Merlin says nothing, staring at Arthur with his eyes wild and afraid.

"And then I turned around and there you were," Arthur goes on, "You were alive and unharmed and I thought I was going mad. I suppose I was, at that point.

"I was foolish. I thought it would end after just the one time, but of course it kept happening." He turns to face Merlin full on, glaring at him with passionate ferocity straight from the depths of his being. "I saw you stabbed with my own sword. I saw you drown in my bathwater. I saw you hanged, strangled, poisoned, burned, decapitated, dismembered, I found you with your tongue swallowed down your throat and your eyes gouged out by birds. I saw your mangled body trampled by horses, I saw your flesh stripped away by the teeth of a thousand rats. So don't tell me what to do or how to think, because there's no way you could ever understand."

Before Merlin has a chance to respond Arthur turns to face out again, gripping the smooth stone ledge with a firm, white-knuckled hold.

Will he feel it? Will he even be aware of it? He can imagine the fall, the rush of the wind in his face. His limbs will flail, and maybe he'll scream, maybe he won't. Either way it will only last for a split second before reaching the end.

How easy it would be, he thinks, to swing one leg over the ledge and then the other. A light push is all it would take, just enough to make him lose his balance and tip forward until he loses control.

It will be final, he knows. He knows that as soon as he's dead it will be over and done with. There will be no going back, but then again, there will be no pain. Maybe he won't feel it. Maybe he'll black out before his head meets the ground, so that he won't be aware of his skull crashing against the stone. Maybe then, at last, it will be over.

"Arthur, this isn't the way," Merlin pleads, "There'll be no going back."

"I know, Merlin, that's the point."

"What are you hoping to accomplish here?" Merlin asks frantically. "What will this help?"

Arthur stares at the ground. It looks so solid, the grey stone cold and dark. It doesn’t reveal its secrets, just lays there, silent and unyielding. "I don't know," He admits eventually. "Maybe I just can't take this anymore. I can't take living in a kingdom when I know my people are suffering. I can't watch knowing that I failed as a King and lead them to their deaths, all because I was too attached to you. Maybe I just don't want to see it anymore.

"Maybe I'll see you, the real you," Arthur muses. "Maybe I'll see you in Avalon, waiting for me, ever the faithful and loyal servant."

A cold wind cuts into Arthur's face, burning his skin where he stands in the harsh winter air. There's snow on the horizon, he can feel it, almost taste the oncoming blizzard on his tongue. He breathes deep, inhaling the chill, all too aware of his bare feet planted firmly on the ground, two points keeping him frozen where he stands.

"Please, don't," Merlin begs, "You can't do this. You can defeat Morgana, I promise. You're the only one who can."

"I can't!" Arthur shouts, his voice echoing across the land. "I can't," He repeats again, softer.

"Doing this won't help Camelot, it will only make things worse. Arthur, you have to listen to me."

"You're just in my head," Arthur whimpers.

"I'm you," Merlin replies, "Which means somewhere in that crazy head of yours, you don't want to die."

Arthur doesn't say anything, his violent shivers having nothing to do with the cold.

"Really. Look me in the eye and tell me that you want to end your life."

Arthur obeys. He looks Merlin straight in the eyes, searching the blue irises for answers, or maybe just something to hold onto. "You're right, I don't want to die," Arthur rasps out, "But I don't know what else to do."

Suddenly there's a crash as the door bursts open and Gaius rushes in, breathless. Arthur and Merlin both jump to face the new arrival, heavy breaths freezing into visibility before them.

"I saw you dashing off," Gaius explains, "I thought you might be here."

"Gaius," Arthur says, his voice shaking. "I need help."

"Come here my boy," Gaius says sympathetically, rushing forward to gently grip Arthur's shoulders.

"I can't make him go away," Arthur says, his voice thick with emotion, "I can't get rid of him."

"I beg of you, Arthur, you have to stop this," Gaius pleads.

"Morgana is Queen now," Arthur quakes, "She's completely taken over the city, the people, my own mind. I can't do anything."

"You can," Gaius insists, "You have to. You're the only one capable of it."

"I'm not fit to rule!" Arthur argues, "I stopped being King long ago. As soon as I saw Merlin die for the first time, it was all over. I was mad from the start."

Gaius huffs, expression wild and pleading. "I'm not going to tell you to off yourself, if that's what you're thinking," He says quietly. "Your sickness is not of magic, it is of the mind. You yourself can stop it."

"How?"

"You have to let go of Merlin."

Arthur isn't aware of when the tears started, but he can feel them now, boiling in his eyes before freezing in streaks down his face. A strangled sob bursts from his throat and he balls his hands into fists.

"How can I let go of him?" He chokes out, "How can I, when I've already gone through so much? I've seen him die again and again, Gaius, how can I let him die one more time?"

"Because you must," Gaius tells him, "He would not have wanted you to be like this. Merlin would have wanted you to move on and be a leader once more, not crippled as you are now. You are the Once and Future King, Arthur. If it is not your duty to your people, then it is your duty to him."

"He's right." Beside him Merlin speaks in a low tone, his expression soft. "You have to let me go."

Arthur shakes his head, his mouth falling open, tasting the salt of his tears on his tongue.

"Accept my death, Arthur," Merlin says gently, "Grieve me, mourn me, do whatever you have to do. But move past it and move on. Take back your people and your throne and your life."

"But to let go of you would be to forget you," Arthur trembles.

"No," Gaius interjects, "Mourning isn't the same as forgetting."

With a terrible sob Arthur's legs give out, sending him crashing to his knees, twisting his torso to face Merlin. Merlin kneels down to be level with Arthur, looking him softly in the eye. Arthur half reaches for him with a trembling hand, but stops a hair's width away from Merlin's cheek.

"I can't lose him, Gaius, I can't," he shakes, staring and breathing heavily at Merlin's image before him.

"It isn't a loss," Gaius says. "Merlin will live on in our hearts. I know you loved him, Arthur. We all did. He was like a son to me, you know that. He was close to me, and Gwen, and so many others. We all cared for him, which means he will never truly leave us. Instead he will live on within us."

"Merlin," Arthur whispers, his voice stuttering as he fights for breath.

"Let me go, Arthur," Merlin murmurs. "You can do it."

Merlin's face fills Arthur's vision before he forces his eyes shut, blocking out the image of those almost lifelike eyes.

He sways there on his knees, shaking with fear so that he almost falls over. But then there's a light pressure on either cheek, simultaneously warm and cold. Gentle fingers gripping his face, threading through his hair, keeping him in place. A third pressure is applied to Arthur's forehead: Merlin's lips. They're soft and tender and barely there, like he's receiving a kiss from a memory. Arthur forces his eyes to remain shut. He realizes, suddenly, that in all the time Merlin's been a phantom in his mind, that he and his servant have never touched.

"Maybe we'll meet again someday, in Avalon," Merlin murmurs against the hairs on Arthur's head. "Just don't make it too soon, eh?"

Something tight in his chest clenches tight and then uncoils, a pressure being lifted from his shoulders.

A sudden memory comes to Arthur: Merlin and him in Arthur’s chambers one afternoon, long before all of this began, before Arthur was even King. Arthur was sitting at his table, plotting points on a map and picking at his lunch while Merlin sat cross-legged on the floor patching one of Arthur’s jackets. The room had been silent for some time, the only sounds being Arthur’s quill and Merlin’s needle. Then, randomly, Arthur had lifted his head. He didn’t know what made him do it-- but he chose that moment to lift his head from his work. His eyes had fallen on Merlin, and he watched him sew for a few seconds before Merlin sensed the eyes on him and looked up, a grin blooming on his face as he met Arthur’s gaze.

Arthur isn’t sure why he thinks of that particular moment, but the memory of Merlin’s carefree smile loosens something in his heart, warmth spreading through to his fingertips. The memory is so gentle, so simple and wonderful because it was them in a time when they were both happy, each carrying their own burdens but carrying on with each other to depend on. Merlin was strong and capable and loving, able to find strength even in the darkest of times. No matter the horror he didn’t give up hope, and Arthur admired him for that, for it was a skill that Arthur did not possess. Merlin was safe from the horrors that Arthur had seen, and had died with goodness in his heart. That’s how Arthur knows that wherever the real Merlin is, he’s alright.

The weight that had been oppressing him lifts from his chest, filling his lungs with air again. He sucks in a deep, icy, exhilerating breath. The hands leave his face and the lips disappear from his forehead. When Arthur next opens his eyes, Merlin is gone.

“How do you feel?” Gaius asks as Arthur shakily gets to his feet.

Arthur takes a shuddering gulp of air before replying. “Alright, I think.”

“Good,” Gaius says, nodding with relief. “That’s good.”

Arthur brings up his sleeve to wipe away the tears on his face. “I’ve accepted his death.”

“And not a moment too soon,” Gaius says. “Morgana can’t be allowed to rule for much longer. How long do you think it will be before...”

“...before I’m sane enough to fight her?” Arthur finishes, and Gaius nods. “I think soon. I’ve finally managed to overcome her curse, so it wouldn’t do to wait.”

“We should get you back to my chambers before someone sees you.”

Just as Arthur nods his agreement, warning bells toll overhead.

“They know I’m gone,” Arthur says, above the noise, “They’ll be looking for me.”

“Then we must hurry back,” Gaius says quickly.

“No,” Arthur says, “You go. I’m going to find Morgana.”

“Now?” Gaius sputters. “Are you sure that’s wise?”

“I’ve finally gotten my sanity back, what better time is there?”

Gaius sighs, looking as though he wants to argue further but knowing it’s futile. “Good luck then,” He says, “And be careful. I don’t want to lose you as well.”

“I’ll be fine, Gaius, trust me.” He claps Gaius on the shoulder briefly before running into the castle. This wing of the palace is empty, but distantly he can hear the sounds of guards rushing about, barking at each other to find the escaped prisoner.

Arthur rushes through the halls, suddenly realising his utter lack of a plan. He can’t exactly burst into a room full of angry sorcerers and expect to win, can he? He doesn’t even know where Morgana is, let alone how to defeat her.

As he moves through the castle he encounters more people, all hurrying about as the warning bells toll. It’s surprisingly easy to hide from Morgana’s guards, ducking behind tapestries and statues whenever he sees one coming near. Briefly he wonders if his own guards are this easy to fool, and makes a mental note to check on that when this madness is over.

Finally Arthur walks past a large ornate door, decorated with carvings of fruit and twisting vines. Morgana’s chambers. Casting a look about himself, he finds that there’s nobody around to see him. Gently he tests the door and is surprised to find it unlocked, opening easily at his touch. He slips inside and closes the door behind him.

The chambers are grand and elegant, large chairs and tables made for lounging positioned around the room. As Arthur creeps in, he feels the place radiating an aura of darkness despite the light colors. It’s as though the presence of Morgana’s corruption has made the room permanently evil, magic and anger lurking in every corner.

On the table lies a variety of objects that Arthur can’t begin to fathom the purpose of. There are boxes with complicated locks, twisted metal tubes and bowls full of strange plants that Arthur’s never seen. This must be where Morgana practices magic, casting spells and enchantments from here in her room.

On the other side of the table from him, Arthur spots a dagger lying on top of an old book. He strides towards it, picking it up and inspecting the blade. There are tiny flakes of a dark brown substance that Arthur would call rust if he didn’t know better. Deciding a weapon could come in handy, he slides the dagger into his belt for safekeeping before turning his attention to the book that was underneath it.

It’s large and leather bound, its unmarked cover worn and ragged from years of use. Arthur’s curiosity gets the better of him and he reaches out a hand to flip the book open, turning the yellowed pages with steady fingers, looking through the spidery text and horrific pictures. There are lists of ingredients for potions and long paragraphs explaining enchantments, along with diagrams of the human body and drawings of plants and animals.

Much of it is written in an exotic language that Arthur doesn’t recognize, the shapes of the letters are such that he can’t begin to comprehend their meaning. In the margins of the page are written words in a different hand that Arthur recognizes as Morgana’s. Little notes on spells and potions such as: “Leafy plants work better” and “Use under a new moon.” Arthur pages through the book until he sees a note that makes him pause: his name, written and underlined in the corner of a page filled with text.

 _“This spell will cause one to experience extreme delusions and hallucinations. The person whom the enchanted loves most will appear dead, so that the enchanted’s worst fears will be realized. This spell will cause insanity and madness: Use with caution._ ”

A bad taste fills Arthur’s mouth as he reads, the introduction followed by a list of instructions and steps necessary to cast the spell. A full moon just after nightfall with the smell of rain in the air are listed as essential for the magic to work. Arthur remembers that first night, how dark it seemed under the moon, how the rain from earlier that day had cleared but remained present in his senses. Then he remembers the horrible scream he heard, and he gives an involuntary shiver. Clenching his jaw against the memories, he slams the book shut and turns away.

Immediately his attention is captured by the glint of something in the corner of his eye near Morgana’s bed. His breath catches in his throat when he realizes what it is: Excalibur, leaning against the bedpost.

He rushes to it, snatching it up eagerly. He smiles at the familiar weight in his hand that he didn’t realize he missed. Inspecting it, he finds Morgana has kept it well polished, the smooth metal shining and smooth, the engravings and designs still clearly carved.

The reunion with the sword is interrupted by the sudden sound of Morgana’s shrill voice.

“Find him! I don’t care how and I don’t care what you do with him, just _find him!_ ”

The sound of her commands get nearer, and Arthur hastily braces himself, facing the door with his sword at the ready.

The doors fly open and Morgana storms in, a wild look on her face, anger radiating from her elegant form. When her eyes fall on the person already in the room, her expression morphs to a smirk.

“Arthur,” She purrs, “Pleasure seeing you here.”

The doors fall shut of their own accord as Morgana moves toward him, magic crackling around her fingertips.

“Morgana,” Arthur warns, lifting Excalibur before him.

“What are you going to do?” She laughs, “Do you think you can overpower me with that bit of metal?”

“I’m going to do all that is within my power to stop you,” Arthur says. “This has to end, now.”

“Because your people are suffering?” Morgana scoffs, and with a twitch of her finger sends Excalibur clattering to the ground. “It’s not so different from what Uther did to mine, is it?”

“That’s not an excuse,” Arthur pleads, taking an involuntary step backwards. “You must have mercy.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t do this forever,” Morgana says sweetly as she advances. “Only for the next twenty years or so. When that time is over your debt will be repaid.”

“It is not my debt, it is my father’s.”

“But he’s dead, so I’m afraid the punishment is yours.”

“I know I’ve done wrong,” Arthur says, raising his free palm, “I stood by and watched while my father executed innocent men and women, and for that I am truly sorry. But the people of Camelot have done no wrong.”

“I don’t care,” Morgana snarls.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Arthur says. “We grew up together, remember. You were like my sister before I knew that you really were. I’m sorry for what’s been done to you. If there were any other way to save you I would do it, but your corruption has given me no other choice but to kill you.”

“As if you have the power of life and death over me!” Morgana’s eyes are bright and wild, her black hair in slight dissaray. “Are you forgetting that I had the same power over your dear Merlin?”

Arthur winces at the mention of his friend’s name.

“Remember, I caused him to die a thousand different ways inside your head. I sent you spiraling into insanity when you couldn’t cope with his death. His suffering was your suffering and I made you endure it tenfold! You went mad and your kingdom fell to me because you are weak and I am powerful. What makes you think that you could even touch me?”

“You’re no different than Uther,” Arthur spits, “You and him are exactly the same.”

“Every day I find myself caring less and less,” Morgana says simply. “I’m taking my revenge.” She holds out a hand and thrusts it at Arthur’s chest, the force sending him crumpling to the ground, just missing the bed, close to where Excalibur landed. “I wasn’t going to kill you at first,” Morgana continues, smirking down at him. Arthur struggles not to sway there on his knees, holding her gaze as he slowly reaches for the dagger in his belt. “If you behaved I would have let you live, sitting in the dungeons with your dear friend Merlin to keep you company. But I’m afraid I’m going to have to send you to the same place I sent him.”

She pauses to smirk down at him, and Arthur draws the dagger out, gripping it tightly before him. He lunges forward with a cry, managing to slash her thigh before her eyes flash, sending the weapon clattering to the side.

“A dagger,” She pants, slouching to grip the cut in her flesh. “I admire your persistence, I’ll give you that. It’s a pity you don’t have the same amount of intelligence.”

Blood seeps through her fingers, staining the dark blue satin of her dress and coloring her pale skin. Her eyes are hard and cold, yet she’s smiling in something similar to glee, as though she doesn’t feel the pain.

“Arthur, dear, you are nothing more than a shadow of the legend you once were, I made sure of that. You’re crippled,” She spits the word, “By your love for that damn servant of yours. It’s pathetic, and it will be the death of you.”

“I’m not as mad as you think, Morgana,” Arthur breathes, looking up at her. In his peripheral vision he sees Exalibur lying where he dropped it, just beyond an arm’s length away. He starts to subtly edge towards it, scooting slowly sideways on his knees.

“Oh really? What kind of sane man spends his time speaking to a servant long dead?”

“I don’t, anymore.”

“Don’t try and fool me,” Morgana says menacingly, her smirk dropping. “Your delusions are what drove you here, because you care too much. You let your feelings for Merlin come before all else, and you’ve let your subjects suffer because you were too much of a coward to do anything about it, making it wonderfully easy for me to take the throne.”

“That’s not going to work, Morgana,” Arthur tells her. He’s closer to the sword now, and Morgana hasn’t noticed. “I’ve moved on.”

Morgana’s face darkens further, her eyes glinting with malice and anger. “You think you can just pretend you’re in your right mind? That you can say you’re alright and then suddenly you will be?” Her face inches closer, leaning down so that Arthur’s vision is filled with her face. Her eyes are sparkling with fierce anger and Arthur knows that he has her full attention. Relying on this knowledge, he reaches for his sword. “Spells and magic are strong, but the mind is stronger, especially one as troubled as yours,” Morgana spits, “A curse can wear off, but true insanity will consume your mind and leave you broken the rest of your hopeless days. If you think you still have the power to overthrow me, after everything that I’ve done to you, then you’re even more foolish than I thought.”

Arthur’s fingers touch the cool metal of the sword and he closes around it, gently dragging it to him, speaking over the light scrape of the metal on the stone floor.

“Foolishness is not found in one wishing to protect his people,” He says, “It is found in one wishing to oppress them.”

Suddenly there are long fingers around his throat, squeezing tightly until he can no longer draw breath. “I am a High Priestess and Queen of Camelot!” Morgana screeches, “I can do to my subjects whatever I wish, for they are nothing more than the dirt underneath my fingernails!”

The force of her attack sends Arthur backwards onto the floor, his head hitting the stone, bringing Morgana down with him. She positions herself on top of him, one knee on the floor, the other pinning his chest firmly down.

“I’m going to enjoy watching you die beneath my hands, Arthur Pendragon. You’re a fool and a disgrace.”

Despite the lack of air his position, Arthur still has Excalibur grasped tightly in his fist where Morgana is paying no attention. Her gaze, feral and savage, is riveted to Arthur’s bulging eyes and rapidly coloring skin, not paying any attention to his arms splayed out on either side. As he positions his sword underneath her, he knows he’s won.

He drives Excalibur into her flesh, plunging in just below her ribs and emerging on the other side. Immediately Morgana’s fingers loosen, her face turning into the perfect picture of surprise.

“I’m not the one who’s mad, Morgana,” Arthur says, his voice hoarse from abuse, “Thanks to you I’ve learned that I should not fear death, but a life of fear itself.” He jerks his body forward, sending Morgana to land on the floor, the sword sliding smoothly from her body. “I’ve conquered my sanity and freed myself from my mind, and in doing so I’ve beaten you.”

“But...” Morgana gasps, her breathing ragged as the struggles on the floor, her hands fluttering uselessly around her wound. She convulses, her breath getting quicker.

“I’m sorry I had to do this to you.” Arthur brings himself to his feet, looking down at his dying sister. “I can only hope for your sake you can repent before your time is done.”

Blood crawls from the tear in Morgana’s dress, darkening the material and spreading out on the stone. Her lips move limply, forming silent words as she takes her final breaths, her expression frightened and pale. As she looks desperately up at her brother, her finely dressed chest rises once, twice, then goes still.

Now the only sound in the room is Arthur’s labored breathing, raspy after Morgana’s assault. He lets the blood stained sword fall to the ground, the metal ringing against the stone. Staring down at Morgana, he sees her final expression, frozen in shock and fear. He supposes fear was inside her all along.

Arthur glances around himself, unsure of what to do next. Outside he can hear the clamor of people, guards and servants all bustling around, completely unaware that the Queen is dead.

Turning back to her body on the ground, Arthur bends over and gently scoops her limp form into his arms. Blood drips from her dress, clinging to the material and soaking into Arthur’s sleeves. He walks the few steps to Morgana’s bed and lays her on top of the blankets, her head resting on the pillows. He arranges her dark hair around her face and smooths her dress, moving her hands to cover the worst of the blood spots. Then he uses two fingers to gently close Morgana’s eyes. When he’s finished he steps back, taking one last look. She looks almost like how he once knew her, a ghost of the compassionate woman she once was.

Heaving a sigh, Arthur turns and finds himself walking towards the big window overlooking the square. The sun shines brightly, reflecting off the snow and lighting it up brilliantly. People bustle about, servants walking quickly and men with horses and swords rushing in pairs, busily going about their duties. A smile appears on King Arthur’s face as he watches his people, thinking with a spark of triumph; look Merlin, I did it. 

***

“Just up there, sire,” Leon says, pointing to the tree at the top of the hill. Arthur nods his thanks and dismounts, handing the reins of his horse to some other Knight.

“I won’t be long,” He promises. Leon nods.

Arthur turns and climbs the rest of the way up the hill. The sky is clear and bright as the snow crunches under his feet, the air still and peaceful.

When he reaches the top he turns to look back. The Knights have retreated a respectful distance well out of earshot, speaking and joking amongst themselves. Smiling, Arthur turns back to the tree. Though it has no leaves in the dead of winter, it somehow seems to be filled with life, teeming with inexplicable energy.

“Hello, Merlin,” Arthur starts, shifting from foot to foot, his voice sounding too loud in his ears. He clears his throat and tries again. “It’s been a long time, but I’ve been busy these past weeks. It’s hard to regain the people’s trust, but they’re starting to come around. I suppose they’re just glad Morgana’s gone.”

It’s been tough, getting Camelot back in order after all that’s happened. Though their leader was gone, Morgana’s brutal followers still remained in the city, doing the best they could to keep hold of the power the sorceress had given them. The Camelot guards and Knights swore allegiance to Arthur immediately, and with their combined efforts they managed to drive most of the evildoers from the city. The rest have slunk into the shadows, once again keeping their magic hidden. Arthur supposes he’ll let them go, so long as they repent their wrongdoings. If they don’t, well, he’ll find something to do with them.

“These past few weeks certainly have been tumultuous. I could use your guidance through some of it.” Funny, he thinks, that under normal circumstances Arthur never would have said such a thing aloud.

“I’m sorry for not talking to you before,” Arthur says, after a long pause. “About the curse and my hallucinations. I’m sure you could have helped me through it and saved a lot of lives. Hell, you probably would have solved the whole thing and I never would have known it was you.

“I guess it wasn't easy, doing all that work and never getting any credit. Gaius told me all about the things you’ve done for me. Most honorable men would never do such things without the promise of reward, but you...I’ll never understand why you would do that, but I do appreciate it. You saved all our lives many times over.”

He draws his cloak around himself against the chill. “I’m not mad about the magic. I suppose I knew, somehow, but maybe I was just in denial. If I had found out any other way I probably would have been angry, but I’d have come around, eventually, at least I like to think so. There’s no way I could ever think you were a bad person, Merlin. We could have figured something out.” He sighs. “I only wish you would have told me, it would have made things so much easier.”

He smiles softly. “I’m going to write a letter to your mother,” He says, “She deserves to know what’s happened. I’ll tell her everything, all that you’ve done and all that’s happened, although I’ll keep some of the details to myself. Nobody deserves to have those images in their heads, especially not Hunith.” Laughter bubbles up in him, short and quiet, and he sobers as soon as it starts.

“I’m sorry for what happened to you,” He says quietly. “I’m going to try and make it up, I promise. Gaius is going to help me see what I can do about this ban on magic. It seems that’s been the source of all our problems anyway.” He smiles. “That man is going to get one hell of a raise, eh?”

There’s a moment of silence, and Arthur looks over his shoulder at his men, some looking away respectfully, others watching him carefully, ready to jump at the first sign of trouble. He turns back around and approaches the tree and the neat pile of rocks next to it, bringing a hand to rub the bark of the grave marker. Beneath his fingertips he can feel the thrum of magic, pulsing and humming in tiny vibrations, traveling up through his arm and straight to his heart. The feeling reminds him of Merlin, and he rubs the tree gently, the motion soothing to him.

“Sleep well, my friend.” His whisper is soft but clear, his hand connected to the magic of the tree, feeling warmed despite the chill in the air.

A smile gracing his lips, Arthur lets his hand drop and he turns his back on the grave, walking down the hill to his Knights.


End file.
